Storm Surge

by Taylor Anderson

  “Wait,” Matt said. “The cruisers may not see us yet, but once we shoot, everybody’ll know where we are. I don’t want the cruisers cutting in front of us. Tell Campeti to stand by.” He didn’t need to send word to Mahan. Perry Brister wouldn’t shoot until Walker did. He looked at Bernie still fussing with the torpedo director. “You ready for this?” he called.

  “I sure hope so, Skipper,” Bernie replied nervously. A lot was riding on his torpedoes, and though S-19 had proved they actually worked in combat, he was still anxious.

  At a closing speed of more than thirty knots, the range was winding down fast. Two flashes lit the forward casemate of the Grik dreadnaught at fifteen hundred yards as the angle on the bow neared forty-five degrees. Both shots went long, but they were well in range now. The cruisers hadn’t closed the gap, but the first two opened fire with their forward guns.

  “They all see us now,” quipped Chief Quartermaster Paddy Rosen at the helm.

  “I don’t want to seem a worrywart,” Courtney said, watching the flashes, “but might we close the metal lids over these windows and perhaps begin shooting back?” Everyone in the pilothouse, even Herring, laughed.

  “I suppose we might as well,” Matt said wryly. “Close and latch the splinter shutters,” he ordered. “The main battery may commence firing.”

  * * *

  Guns one, three, and four flared, and the odd-colored tracers arced away, converging toward the closest cruiser. All three were short, throwing up a wall of bright water that doubtless drenched the ship.

  “Goddamn!” Silva roared, picking at his ear. “They might warn a fella!”

  “You no hear saalvo bell?” cried Gunner’s Mate Pak-Ras-Ar, or “Pack Rat.” He was sitting on the trainer’s seat, staring at the lead Grik dreadnaught through his telescopic sight and slowly turning the wheel that traversed the big gun. The bell he was referring to had been salvaged from Amagi to replace Walker’s old salvo buzzer.

  Lawrence was the gun’s pointer, and was moving his wheel back and forth to keep the proper elevation. He wasn’t built for the seat and had to stand awkwardly, peering through his own sight. “I heard it!” he said.

  “What bell?”

  “You’re already half-blind,” Horn accused. “Now you’ve gone deaf too. What the hell good are you?”

  “Shut up, you.” Silva spun to his own talker. “Campeti said we can shoot if we want, right?”

  “Right,” the ’Cat confirmed.

  “Then let’s shoot! I’ve sunk bigger than those stupid Grik tubs with just one gun before.” He yanked open the breech. “Load!”

  Three more muffled booms came from aft, and Mahan’s tracers lashed past. Walker’s own guns spat another salvo, and Silva cursed again. “Hey, one o’ you apes warn me next time, wilya? Somebody gimme somethin’ to stick in my ears!”

  A ’Cat passed a shell to Horn, and the China Marine slammed it in the breech creditably enough. Dennis closed the breech and yelled, “Ready!”

  “Ready,” echoed Pack Rat, still turning his wheel.

  “Ready!” cried Lawrence, still making the muzzle bob slightly up and down.

  “Fire!” Silva roared.

  * * *

  Matt saw an explosion light the lead Grik battleship, but couldn’t tell if any damage was done. The salvos were flying furiously to starboard, and the cruiser line was starting to straggle. One of the ships was afire, and it looked like there’d been good hits on another. Matt was focused to port, however. To prevent confusion and maximize the possibility of hits, he’d ordered that Walker and Mahan each fire one torpedo at each battleship. It was unorthodox, but since both ships had a triple mount rigged out, that gave their torpedomen—and torpedoes—six separate tries to get it right. As soon as the fish were in the water, the two destroyers would come about and fire six more torpedoes from the starboard side.

  Ragged broadsides roared from the first and second battleships, kicking up massive, silver-gray waterspouts in a broad pattern around them, but Matt felt no slamming impact. “They’re all yours, Bernie,” he almost whispered to the intently concentrating torpedo officer, personally standing behind the director, constantly calling corrections.

  “Stand by!” Bernie cried, his voice rising. “Fire two!”

  “Fire!” Minnie repeated in her microphone, not to the torpedo mount but to Ed Palmer, who’d relay the command to Mahan by TBS so she could launch just a few seconds later.

  There was a flash aft as the impulse charge flung a long, glistening cylinder from the number two tube. With a smoky trail of hot air, it vanished in the swells dashing by. Immediately, Bernie swung the director toward the second target. The third battleship fired and there were more splashes, but a terrible crash also jarred the ship forward. Bernie ignored it and suddenly cried, “Stand by. Fire four!”

  “Fire!” Minnie said loudly, then immediately demanded a damage report. Matt looked out the window just in front of Rosen; it was the only one not covered. The crew of the number one gun had been thrown off their stride and missed the last salvo at the cruisers, but quickly recovered themselves. Matt didn’t see any damage.

  “We got a big damn hole forward in the chain locker, Skipper!” Minnie reported. “The chain stop the ball from punchin’ out the other side, though, an’ we only takin’ a little water.”

  Matt nodded. Two more impacts, less sharp but still heavy, jarred the ship.

  “Lucky hits from those cruisers,” Commander Herring shouted from the starboard bridgewing. “Though I can’t imagine how they managed it. Their formation is quite disheveled!” Matt’s eyebrows rose. Herring actually seemed to be enjoying himself!

  “Damage report!” Matt demanded.

  “Stand by. Fire six!” Bernie yelled.

  “Fire!” Minnie squeaked, then listened. “Those two not punch through; they maybe skate in. Leave big leaky dents, though!”

  The first dreadnaught thundered again, quickly followed by a few rounds from the second. The enemy had gone to independent fire, but there was no coordination and any gun might be shooting at Walker or Mahan. There was no denying that Grik gunnery had improved, but more concentrated fire would’ve been more dangerous.

  “Mahan reports hit on her port torpedo mount—but she already shoot fish. She also hit on aft deckhouse, an’ takin’ water in her steering engine room!”

  “Tell Captain Brister to hold her together and follow our turn. Right full rudder, Paddy! Bring us about to course two zero zero!”

  Rosen spun the big brass wheel. “Right full rudder, aye! Making my course two zero zero!” A moment later, Walker shuddered under a double hammer blow inflicted by the third dreadnaught.

  Matt heard Minnie demanding a report while Bernie and his assistants scampered toward the starboard torpedo director. “How much longer?” he asked Bernie as he passed.

  “Any second . . . I hope!” Bernie shot back.

  * * *

  “Well, our shootin’s done,” Silva grumped as the ship heeled sharply and began her turn.

  “No, it ain’t!” Pack Rat denied. “We still shoot at cruisers!”

  “Yeah, but now we’ll be shootin’ at what Mr. Campeti tells us to.” He glared at the battleships. “I sure wanted to cut me a notch for one of those bastards!”

  Silva’s feet left the deck and he landed on his face near the port-side ready locker. He jumped up like a shot, but he was stunned. “There’s fire!” he yelled, seeing a blossom of flame aft, and the sight of it associated with the ready locker alarmed him. He shook his head. Fire’s aft. No immediate danger o’ these rounds cookin’ off. He shook his head again and took another look. The ship’s Nancy seaplane was shredded and burning, its wings drooping down on either side of the catapult. Jeek, Walker’s air-division crew chief, was leading a charge toward the flames with a hose, and Silva saw Spanky on the aft deckhouse, pointing and yelling. Other ’Cats were bailing out of the 25-millimeter tubs on either side of the burning plane, some lugging ammo boxes. Shoul
d’ve flown the damn plane off, he thought, or pitched it over the side like they did last time, but nooo. It wasn’t runnin’ right, an’ Jeek didn’t want to lose another one like that. Skipper’s too soft on the flyboys sometimes, he decided, neglecting to remind himself that he’d agreed the plane didn’t pose much of a fire hazard in action against ships armed only with solid shot.

  There was yelling below him from the galley, and he realized one of the big Grik balls must’ve hit there, to toss them around so. The most recognizable voice was Earl Lanier’s, roaring like a gored bull, and Silva wondered briefly if the filthy, bloated cook had taken another one in the gut. He turned and scanned his gun crew. Lawrence was helping a semiconscious Pack Rat off his seat. The ’Cat’s helmet was gone and his forehead wet with blood where he must’ve conked it on something. Gunny Horn was up, looking aft. A few ’Cats were sitting on deck, but seemed okay.

  “Larry! You an’ Poot get the ‘Rat down to the wardroom. Might as well put Earl outa our mis’ry on the way. At least check his mates.” He looked at his talker. “Any more business for us?”

  “Caam-peeti say ‘secure, an’ check on number t’ree gun.’ It drop off the fire-control circuit!”

  Silva glanced to starboard, but couldn’t tell what was going on over there. “What’s with you guys?” he yelled to starboard. When there was no response, he shouted at his crew. “Whichever o’ you mugs that ain’t dyin’ better come with me to see if those guys’re okay or need a hand.”

  The Grik dreadnaughts continued their rumbling fire, and tall splashes rose all around the ship. Walker’s number one gun sent a tracer toward the cruisers—which Silva could see now, as the ship’s turn continued; they’d become scattered, flaming wrecks, like burning brush piles in the night. He nodded satisfaction and looked aft again, but the bright flames and smoke kept him from seeing the first torpedo slam into the lead Grik ship.

  * * *

  “We get hit! Two hits on lead Grik waagon!” Minnie cried, just as a cheer exploded on the starboard bridgewing. “Spanky say, ‘They beat-i-ful!’”

  “We saw them, Minnie!” Matt said, as Walker’s bow came around, “And they were!” Walker had been taking a beating from the big Grik guns, and Matt was growing increasingly frustrated. So far, there’d been no crippling damage and his ship still responded with the nearly new vitality she’d exhibited since her overhaul, but she was getting hurt. The towering waterspouts that rocked the first enemy dreadnaught relieved Matt as much as Bernie, who was practically giddy with excitement. All his hard work had been vindicated, and perhaps what he considered a long-ago failing had been purged at last.

  “Well done, Mr. Sandison!” Courtney complimented grandly. “Oh, well done indeed!”

  “Congratulations, Mr. Sandison,” Commander Herring said sincerely.

  The ironclad slowed immediately, and was already listing heavily to port. Suddenly, a third phosphorescent waterspout rose beside her, aft, raining debris in the sea around her and accelerating her roll.

  Matt sobered. “Okay, back to work. That one would’ve missed ’em all if the first one didn’t slow.”

  “Silence!” Bernie shouted at his torpedomen. “Sorry, Skipper,” he added.

  “Don’t be sorry. That’s already more hits than we ever got against the Japs! It’s kind of weird having a torpedo you can count on.”

  “My course is two zero zero!” shouted Paddy Rosen at the helm.

  “Very well,” Matt replied. “Stand by starboard torpedoes, but let’s wait a minute more to see if we get any more hits with the first salvo.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” Bernie replied, his voice determined.

  “Campeti says number three gun is back up, and asks can he engage the waagons?” Minnie reported.

  “By all means,” Matt answered, and the salvo bell immediately rang.

  Most of the Grik guns had gone silent for a moment, as word about what happened to their lead must’ve spread through their remaining ships. The range had opened during the turn as well, and for the last few minutes they’d just been pounding water. Now they resumed firing as first Walker, then Mahan steadied to make another run. Plumes of spray erupted around the old destroyers amid the tearing-sheet sound of incoming shot. Walker’s bow lanced through a tremendous splash just as a hundred-pound ball skated off the fo’c’sle; tore a leg off the number three shellman, sending the poor ’Cat spinning into the sea; and clanged off the newly reinforced plating on the front of the bridge structure. Matt was grateful and relieved to hear Chief Bosun Gray’s distinctive roar: “Get that gun back on target, damn your useless tails! You don’t like gettin’ shot at? Shoot back! Goddamn. Do I have to show you how to do it after all this time? I thought you were real destroyermen, not a buncha pansy-ass, mouse-chasin’ housecats!” He’d missed Gray in the pilothouse during this fight—he usually stopped in now and then—but it was unusually crowded and he was needed where he was.

  A final waterspout jetted up alongside the third ironclad, the one that had, frankly, given them the most trouble. Steam and sparks vomited into the sky from the aft funnels, and almost immediately a tremendous, bright blast blew away a quarter of the armored casemate, sending funnels, guns, bodies, and hundreds of tons of shredded timbers and shattered plating spinning away in the dark.

  “Killed it, by God!” Commander Herring exulted. Matt nodded amid the cheers that thundered aboard his ship. He raised his binoculars to watch the huge ship dip low by the stern while more, smaller explosions crackled inside the remainder of the casemate. I hope you’re in there, you bastard, Matt thought, meaning Kurokawa. And I hope every ghost you’ve helped to make is in there with you, watching you burn. He shifted his glasses to the first ship in line in time to watch it lay on its side and begin to fill. That left only the middle ironclad, and he looked at it.

  “Second target turns to port,” Minnie relayed the word from the crow’s nest.

  “I see it,” Matt acknowledged. “They’re going to try to close the distance and hammer us.” He looked at the ’Cat stationed at the lee helm. “All ahead flank! However much they’ve been taught to lead us, let’s throw ’em a curve. Signal Mahan to match our speed if she can, or fire her torpedoes as soon as Perry likes the range. Once she does, she’s to make smoke and zigzag the hell out of the line of fire. I don’t want anybody else hurt killing this last one, if we can help it.”

  “I . . . I don’t know what the torpedoes’ll do if we launch them going that fast, Skipper.” Bernie warned apprehensively.

  “Between us and Mahan, we’ll be pointing six fish at that damn thing. I bet at least one’ll hit, and since it doesn’t look like they spent much time worrying about compartmentalization, that should do the trick.”

  Bernie took a deep breath. “Aye, aye, Captain.” He moved back to the director. “Stand by for torpedo action, starboard.”

  Walker and Mahan lanced forward, closing the range on the last Grik dreadnaught. If Kurokawa hadn’t been on one of the others, he was certainly aboard this one, and it seemed like everyone on both destroyers knew this was more than just an attack to avenge the loss of friends and ice the cake on the Allied victory at the second Battle of Madras; it was a remorseless execution of a rabid beast. The Grik fired furiously, but just couldn’t cope with the near thirty knots Walker suddenly achieved, and the twenty-seven that Mahan somehow managed. At the same time, both destroyers punished the massive ironclad with rapid, accurate salvos that had to be doing damage at this range. Three yellow flashes pulsed at Mahan’s side, one after another, and she turned sharply away to starboard as soon as the torpedoes were clear. Brister probably hoped this would particularly confound the Grik gunners.

  “Tubes one through five, in salvo!” Bernie cried. “Fire one . . . Fire three . . . Fire five!” He took a deep breath and stepped back from the director. “All torpedoes expended, Captain Reddy,” he said formally, as a near miss threw water on the bridgewing.

  “Very well. Left full rudder, Mr. Rose
n. Make smoke!”

  “Left full rudder, aye!”

  “Make smoke!” Minnie said in her mouthpiece. It was dark enough that they’d soon be invisible to the enemy, but the smoke should hide their wake. Matt also thought it could have the added psychological effect of making the enemy think they’d just vanished. At least for a few moments—long enough to get out of range and turn to see what happened. They didn’t quite make it.

  “Hit! Hit!” Minnie screeched. “Lookout says two Mahan fishes is hits!”

  “Secure from making smoke!” Matt ordered. “Rudder amidships. Slow to two-thirds!”

  Walker had described a surprisingly tight circle for her hull shape, and the enemy was back off her port side, about three thousand yards away.

  “Look at her blow!” Gray reveled. The Chief Bosun had finally appeared on the bridge. “We’ll never know if we hit her or not!”

  It was true. Massive explosions racked the wreck, and any of Walker’s torpedo impacts would’ve been lost in the violence of the cataclysm. Everyone in the pilothouse was watching with binoculars or Imperial telescopes, and so many of the crew had raced to port to see, the ship was heeling slightly.

  “We did it,” Matt whispered, his words lost in the tumult. He hadn’t doubted they could, and unlike so many before, this action had been largely voluntary. But he felt tremendous relief that they’d succeeded so well, with such small loss compared to what the rest of the fleet had suffered, and he was deeply satisfied that they had—most likely, he cautioned himself—finally destroyed that madman Kurokawa. He smiled as his ship and her people continued celebrating.

  “Cap-i-taan Brister on Mahaan sends ‘Bless us all!’” Minnie shouted over the din.

  Matt grinned wider and raised his glasses to find Walker’s truncated sister. There she was! Just north of the burning hulk, she was turning back toward them. Matt was watching her fondly when something—it had to have been one of Walker’s own torpedoes, thrown horribly off course—suddenly exploded without warning against Mahan’s thin steel and blew her bow completely off.