He looked at the evidence of their hard day’s work. Across the lightly choppy water, hundreds of clustered barrels bobbed from the shallows on one side of the channel to the other. Some supported a deadly cargo. Beyond the barrels, and even mixed with them where they could, they’d set the posts supporting even more explosives. The minefield looked more impressive than it was, and the first storm that came along would carry it away. Eventually the barrels would leak and the depth charges would sink and detonate without warning. That was one of the main reasons they’d waited so long to prepare the “surprise”; so itnelayerht= would be fresh and ready when the enemy came. He noticed there was a kind of vague pattern to the floating shapes, and it occurred to him the pattern was broken along the side of the channel they were on. It’d be obvious to anybody—especially some Jap lookout in Amagi’s top—there was a free pass right through the minefield. The other side looked tight, but that was where they’d deliberately set most of the dummies so Walker and the frigates would have a safe path to return. He looked tiredly around. There were still ten depth charges left, but all the barrels on the barges were gone.
“Hey, Bosun,” he said, getting Gray’s attention. “I think we missed a spot.” Before Gray could answer, a growing, clattering drone approached from the southwest. Looking up, they saw the abbreviated outline of the PBY. “Coming back,” Silva muttered. “I wonder how far behind our ship is?”
Another drone was approaching. He looked toward Mahan, loitering a safe distance from the semicircle the barges had formed, and saw a launch drawing near. A few minutes later it bumped alongside, and Lieutenant Sandison hopped onto the barge carrying a large, canvas-wrapped object in his hands.
“Is this the last of them?” he asked.
“Yes sir,” Gray replied.
“All right. I want you to set them all for, oh, say, a hundred and fifty feet; then we’ll tie a cable off to one and put it over the side.”
“One fifty?” Gray asked, surprised.
“You heard me.”
“But the water here’s only about eighty feet deep.”
“I know. Trust me; you’re going to like it.” Securing one end of the rope to the barge, they dropped the depth charge attached to the other over the side.
“Now,” Sandison instructed, “rig all the rest to slide down the rope so they’ll rest together on the bottom. All except one. Chief? I might need your help with this. I’m a torpedo guy, after all.”
“Well, I ain’t no depth-charge man,” Gray growled. “We ought to have Campeti.” He paused, pointing, while Sandison unwrapped his object. “What the hell’s that?”
“It used to be a MK-6, magnetic torpedo exploder. It’s the one we took out of that fish we put in Amagi—the one that went off. We worked it over, and now it’s been redesignated the Silly Six, Sandison Surprise.”
“Silly’s right. What the hell’s it good for?”
“Well, as you can see, there’ve been a few modifications.” He held it up. “First, the contact-exploder mechanism has been entirely removed—leaving just the magnetic trip mechanism . . .”
“Okay.”
“. . . which is now just a glorified magnetic switch.” There was a loud splash behind them as another depth charge rolled over the side. Half a dozen men and Lemurians held the rope taut as it sank. “I will next put the switch backfor company. . . .”
“I’ll be damned!” Gray muttered, realization dawning.
“Almost certainly,” Sandison agreed. “You’ll see there’re two long wires trailing out of the canister? I want the canister secured tightly to a rope by its handles, the other end of the rope wrapped around the depth charge. Make the distance about sixty-five feet. When you do that, we’ll wrap these two wires around the cable—loosely, with lots of slack—until we get to the charge.”
“But how are we going to set it off?” Gray asked. “If we try to run those wires in through the hydrostatic fuse, the damn thing’ll leak.”
Sheepishly, Bernie fished a hand grenade from his pocket. Two more wires ran out of the top where the fuse had been, and it was carefully sealed around them. “I got this from Reavis. He had the duty.”
“Why that little . . . !” Silva began, gasping from exertion.
“Don’t be too hard on him, Dennis. Spanky gave me a note.”
Gray just shook his head. Another heavy splash. “So,” he said, pointing to another object. “What’s that? It looks like a big-ass cork.”
Sandison nodded. “It’s a float for a Lemurian fishing net. Buoyant as hell. I can’t remember what they call it; ask one of your guys.” He gestured around. “Whatever it is, I think it’s ’Cat for ‘big-ass cork.’ It’ll hold our trigger up.”
Gray stared, hands on his hips. “You know? If that crazy gizmo works, it’ll probably be the first time in the history of the war against the Japs one of those magnetic bastards did anything right.”
“Maybe,” Sandison agreed; then he pointed to the open lane in the minefield that led to it. “But if it doesn’t, we’ll have even more reason to curse them—only we probably won’t be able to.”
Gray nodded as another depth charge splashed over the side. “Yeah. Thank God this ain’t the main deal. I’d hate to think everything was riding on it.”
Silva stopped heaving on the next depth charge in line and wiped his brow. “What the hell do you mean, this ain’t the main deal?” he demanded between gasps for air. “We been doin’ all this work for a sideshow?” Shortly after 2100 that night, the new construction frigates, USS Tolson and USS Kas-Ra-Ar, displayed the proper lantern-light recognition signals, and were allowed to pass under the guns of Fort Atkinson. Mahan was waiting for them, having returned the barges to the yard. Now she signaled them to heave to and wait for a launch to bring a pilot to take them safely through the minefield. As the ships passed in the night, Jim Ellis saw they’d taken quite a pounding, and though their masts still stood they didn’t look new anymore. Of Walker and Donaghey there was no sign for almost another hour. Finally a flare went up, declaring an emergency, and Walker appeared, towing the wallowing, dismasted hulk of Lieutenant Garrett’s ship. The launch took Gray across so he could guide the two ships inside the bay. With her searchlights sweeping the surface of the water, the old destroyer picked her way into the clear, where andl thinking. He sighed.
Wishful thinking wouldn’t solve their ammunition problems, either. Walker had sortied with another twenty of the “new” shells, reloaded with a solid copper projectile and black powder. As Ellis reported, the projectile worked okay, after a fashion. They went off, and even flew reasonably straight, but with a much lower velocity than the targeting computer was accustomed to, so local control was the only way to go. It also took every one they had to sink six ships. It went without saying that the copper projectiles would be worse than useless against Amagi. Sandison hadn’t been pleased to learn how the rounds performed when Ellis first told him. He, Garrett, and Campeti had plenty of ideas how to improve them, but they just didn’t have the time. They’d have to fight with what they had. He shook his head.
Looking out to starboard, Matt made out Mahan’s outline in the dark as the other ship closely paced them. It occurred to him that this was only the second time they’d steamed together since being reunited at Aryaal. That other time was only a brief foray when they’d played tug-of-war for Mahan’s propeller. Now, even if they were making only ten knots, Matt felt a sudden exhilaration. The sound of the blowers so close together, and the swish of the sea as they parted it between them, left him with a sense of companionship he’d missed. Jim Ellis was over there, on that other bridge, and Matt wondered what he was thinking. Maybe the same thing. He suddenly wished it were daylight so the people they defended could see the two destroyers steaming side by side in the bay. The sight might bolster their morale—at least until they saw what they were up against.
Without warning, Matt had a chilling premonition that this was the last time Walker and Mahan would ever be in fo
rmation again. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t shake the thought. It was as though the swishing sea were a ghostly voice warning the elderly sisters to say their final farewell, because one, at least, was doomed. Which one? he wondered with a heavy heart. Or would both face destruction when Amagi steamed into the bay? The moment ended when they neared the dock, and both ships reduced speed. Mahan went first to the fueling pier, where her bunkers were quickly filled. Then she moved briefly to the dock, where over half her crew went ashore, leaving fifteen human and twenty Lemurian volunteers aboard—just enough to operate her during the short part she would play. Half her remaining ammunition was off-loaded as well. It had been agreed that Walker would need it more than she.
In less than an hour, Mahan cast off once more, just as Walker was beginning to fuel. As she crept away from the lights on the dock, the jury-rigged Morse lamp on her port bridge wing quickly flashed: “Good hunting. Farewell.” Ellis emphasized his message with a long, harsh toot on Mahan’s steam whistle.
“Send, ‘Good hunting, God bless,’” ordered Matt. While Walker’s Morse lamp clacked, he watched Mahan fade into darkness, until she was visible no more.
Near the end of the midwatch, Dennis Silva was supervising the transport of vital tools and machinery from the torpedo workshop to their—hopefully—temporary storage, in hardened bunkers ashore. Everything that could be spared—the lathe, millpers, logs, charts, manuals, and other documents ashore a short time earlier. Even the conduits and bundles of long-bypassed wiring were being stripped from the ship to save the copper wire. Earl Lanier, Ray Mertz, and Pepper gravely removed the restored Coke machine themselves. All told, it was a difficult task, and even though Dennis appreciated the necessity and approved the captain’s foresight in ordering it, the implications were ominous and disheartening.
He’d never been so tired. It had been a grueling day, and even his apparently inexhaustible and irrepressible energy had limits, it seemed. Laney would soon replace him with the morning watch, however, and hopefully he’d get a few hours’ sleep. The captain had already told them the morning general quarters alarm wouldn’t sound. He stopped on the pier, shuffling back from the bunker, and looked at the ship for a moment. She seemed strangely fuzzy in the humid, hazy air, and ephemeral sparks flew like fireflies from last-minute repairs. Her weirdly diffused searchlights beamed eerily downward, illuminating her decks and casting long, twisted shadows. They made her glow like some unearthly, mournful specter, and completing the surrealistic scene, a lively tune squeaked vaguely from Marvaney’s phonograph. Silva felt a sudden chill, and sensed he was moving toward his grave. He shuddered.
“She does look rather ‘creepy,’ as you would say,” came a girlish voice from the gloom, and the mighty Dennis Silva nearly pissed himself.
“What’re you doin’ here, goddamn it?” he demanded more harshly than he meant to.
“I came to see you.”
“Me?” He stopped, peering down at Rebecca’s tiny form. “What for? Why ain’t you with O’Casey or Lieutenant Tucker?”
“I ‘gave them the slip,’ and each thinks I am with the other. Besides, you are my other protector, and I’m perfectly safe.”
“Sure, you’re safe as can be around here, even without a watchdog. Least for now. ’Cats are swell folks. But what’d you wanna see me for?”
Rebecca sighed. “Dennis Silva, you are the most vile, crude, wildly depraved creature. . . . I never suspected such as you might even exist. The spectacle you made of yourself when we arrived! I would scold you for your shamelessness if I suspected you understood the concept of shame, but somehow”—she took a breath and shook her head—“I have come to care for you . . . to a small degree. I never had a brother, and have always been thankful for it—properly so, it seems—for I find myself thinking of you more and more in that unsettling role. My sense of propriety demands I despise you—and I do!—yet . . . I also find, like a brother, I suppose, I can’t help but love you just a bit as well.” She grimaced, as if at the foul taste of the words.
Silva cracked. Perhaps it was exhaustion or indigestion, or perhaps some soot from Walker’s stacks got in his eyes, but suddenly his face was wet with tears, and he’d gathered the girl in a tight embrace. “I’m a rowdy old scamp,” he agreed huskily into her hair. “Can’t help it. But I’d be proud to take you on as my little sister, if you make me. Maybe you can teach me a little about that word, ‘shame,’ you mentioned. Right now, though, you got to r>
“You are unloading things from her in case she sinks!” Rebecca cried, suddenly tearful as well.
“Naw, she can’t sink. We’re just gettin’ a buncha loose junk out of the way. You’d be amazed how cluttered a place can get with nothin’ but sloppy guys livin’ there.”
“You’re lying. You need me, you and poor Lawrence as well. I can’t help but think something dreadful will happen to you both without me to watch over you—and just think how terrified he will be: his first battle, and no one to comfort him. . . . I don’t think anyone really likes him, you know.”
“I like him, even if he is a lizard,” Dennis assured her. “I already said I was sorry for shootin’ him.”
“It’s not the same. I must spend the battle aboard your ship. . . .” She paused, desperate. “You need me! You will need me before the battle is done; I know it!”
“Now, now, little girls underfoot is the last thing we need in a fight. Lieutenant Tucker’s gonna need you, though, and that’s a fact.” He set her down, wiping his eyes. “An’ one thing I need you to do, if it comes to it, is tell my gals I love ’em all. Would you do that? It’s Pam and Risa. I know you don’t approve, but I do love ’em both.” He smiled. “And you too, doll . . . I mean . . . sis.”
Rebecca burst into tears again, and clung to him like a rock in a confused, breaking sea.
“Now run on. I got stuff to do, or the Griks won’t have to get me; the captain will.”
“Very well.” She sniffed, releasing him. “Please tell Lawrence—”
“I will. So long now.”
She watched him turn and walk tiredly—dejectedly, it seemed—to join a group of Lemurians who’d passed them while they spoke, and together they crossed the gangway onto the ship. Still sniffling, Rebecca stood in the shadows for quite a while, looking back and forth. Eventually, convinced there’d be no more arrivals, she strode purposefully in the direction she knew she was supposed to go.
CHAPTER 11
Lieutenant Perry Brister, Mahan’s former engineering officer, was standing on the southwest wall of Fort Atkinson before the sun came up. It was dank and humid and totally dark. There was no moon, and the stars were obscured by a heavy, drizzly overcast that had moved in during the night. The fort was entirely exposed to the elements, and there was no higher promontory nearby to protect it from the wind or shade it from the sun. If a Strakka ever directly struck it, the damage would be severe. It did enjoy the highest elevation for miles around, strangely enough, and the best view of the strait. It was strange, because, like other little geographic things now and then, Perry didn’t remember the elevation on the point where the fort was constructed being quite this high in “the old world.” He wasn’t complaining, but it often struck him as odd. Everyone always said the planet was the same, just everything living on it was different. That wasn’t always the case, according to Bradford’s “ice age” theory, and Perry agrle ones too. Whatever the reason, Fort Atkinson was a lot better situated than it would have been built on the same stretch of ground back home.
He fiddled nervously with his binoculars. He wanted to raise them and take a look, but it was too early for that. By doing so, he’d only confirm his unease to the defenders gathered nearby. He cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back.
“Good morning, Mr. Bris-terr,” greeted Muln Rolak from the gloom. The elderly Lemurian held two cups of “coffee.” His English was still barely understandable, but Brister had become fairly fluent in ’Cat. He replied in that language
.
“Morning, Lord Rolak,” he said, accepting one of the cups. He looked curiously at the other. “I thought you guys didn’t like this stuff. Only use it for medicine?”
Rolak chuffed. “I need medicine today.”
Perry nodded. He took a tentative sip and grimaced. “If bad taste is the measure of an effective dose, this stuff ought to cure you.”
“I need it to wake me up,” Rolak confessed. “I didn’t sleep well last night.” He scratched at an eye with one of his clawed fingers. “I’ve been a warrior all my life, and have fought many battles.” He blinked. “I’ve not always won, but I’ve usually enjoyed myself—and I always survived. Until the Grik came to Aryaal, I never faced the fear that I might not.” He uttered a grunting laugh. “Now I face that fear every day.” Subconsciously, Perry was fingering the binoculars again. Rolak gestured around them. “These warriors feel it too. All of them. They wouldn’t be sane if they didn’t.” He made a coughing sound that passed for a wistful sigh. “This is not a fun war.” He glanced ruefully at Brister and pointed at the binoculars. “So take a look if it makes you feel better. I doubt anyone will notice.”
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