There was no guarantee the enemy would break, even if the plan succeeded. They had only marginal evidence to support Bradford’s theory of “Grik Rout.” They’d seen it once at Aryaal, and once aboard Big Sal. When things had turned suddenly and overwhelmingly against them, and the Grik found themselves on the defense, they’d fled in mindless terror. It was like a dog chasing a bear. The bear was fearless when attacking, but when attacked, its only thought was escape. They were banking everything that the Grik behaved much the same way. There was glaring evidence the reverse was also true, however. When they’d followed the Grik belowdecks on Revenge, the creatures had fought like cornered animals. Of course, that was what they’d been, after all. Just as the bear would finally turn on the dog if it were brought to bay, the Grik fought furiously in the hold of the ship. But there’d been no coordination, no discipline, and it had been every Grik for itself. Except the Grik captain. It hadn’t fought at all, preferring suicide to capture—very much like what little Matt knew about the Japanese. He still wondered if that was significant.
Gray hadn’t seen Grik Rout on Tarakan either. The enemy came ashore and charged and died and killed in the same old way. In the end they’d fought savagely, and the battle raged hand-to-hand—but they’d been cornered too, hadn’t they? The sea was at their back, and there was nowhere for them to go. That had to be their weak spot; Lawrence, as safely as possible ensconced in Matt’s own quarters, believed it might be so. Now all they could do was pray.
At long last the terrible day had dwindled into twilight, and the twilight into an endless, terrible night. The sky was a muddy pall, shot through with flashes of light. Finally Amagi was coming—and Walker was the cornered beast.
Matt raised his binoculars. The dim shape of the battle cruiser was edging past Fort Atkinson into the bay. She was screened by at least a dozen Grik ships, probably there to soak up any remaining mines. One of the ships exploded and abruptly sank, even as the thought came to him. Amagi adjusted her course, carrying her farther into the cleared lane they’d left for her. Matt tensed. The “special” mine was their last chance to do it the easy way, their last chance to survive, more than likely. The minutes passed, and the dark apparition continued to grow, inexorably. Surely she must have passed over Mr. Sandison’s mine by now! He sighed. He’d never really expected it to work. The MK-6 magnetic exploder had let them down so many times, he’d known in his heart it would fail. He was still surprised how let down he felt now that it had once again. That was one break that would have made all the difference.
Matt lowered the glasses and looked at the men around him. He sensed their fear, even in the gloom. They knew their ematch. The game that was called on account of rain almost exactly a year ago would be played out here at last, and the opponent they faced wasn’t only the hulking brute they associated with all their trials; it was the Japs. Somehow that seemed profoundly appropriate. The terrible battle raging around them on land and sea would be won or lost. Perhaps what they did here would influence that, but regardless, this was Walker’s fight, and Mahan’s. Nothing anyone else did could influence that. For a moment Matt was silent, remembering the long list of names stricken from the rolls since the last time these three ships met, and he could almost feel the ghosts gathering ’round, expecting him to exact revenge or join them in the attempt. He looked again at the men and ’Cats in the pilothouse, and forced a slight smile.
“Just a few good licks; then we run like hell.” He rolled his shoulders and faced the front. Beneath his hand was the back of his chair, bolted to the front of the pilothouse. Part of the ship. Gently, almost lovingly, he patted it. “One more time, old girl,” he whispered, then raised his voice. “All ahead full. Make your course zero one zero.”
“Ahead full, zero one zero, aye,” came the strained reply.
“Mr. Garrett may commence firing as soon as he has a solution. Armor-piercing.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Reynolds said, and repeated the order to the acting gunnery officer. “Sir, Mr. Garrett wants to know if he should withhold a reserve?”
Matt shook his head. “No. Give ’em all he’s got.”
Even as Walker accelerated, her tired sinews bunching for a final sprint, they saw winking flashes and blooms of fire erupt from the Japanese ship.
Kurokawa was just leaving to return to the more spacious flag bridge—a more comfortable vantage from which to view the battle—when he was stopped by the sighting of the American destroyer. He whirled and paced quickly to the windows.
“Where?!”
“Port bow, Captain,” Sato said in a quiet, clipped voice. Kurokawa rubbed his hands together with glee.
“Commence firing, Commander Okada! I want that ship erased!”
“Yes, Captain.” Sato prepared to relay the order with a heavy heart, but Kurokawa speared him with a cold stare. Sato’s tone had finally penetrated the captain’s euphoria.
“Commander Okada does not approve the destruction of His Majesty’s enemies?” he mocked. Sato turned to him, expression hooded. But before he spoke, something deep inside him snapped and he stiffened to attention.
“On the contrary, Captain. But I remain unconvinced the American destroyer represents His Majesty’s chief enemy in this world.” He looked pointedly at Kurokawa. “We are about to waste ammunition, lives, and possibly an opportunity as well.” Sato knew he’d said too much, and was fully aware of the consequences, but he couldn’k hf they do that, my guess is we’ll crack wide-open. I want you to take personal command of the rifle company, and stand ready to hammer them back if they force a breach. Use the B’mbaadans too. Rifles are great for distance work, but up close you’re going to need swords to back you up.”
“My place is in the line with my Marines,” Chack protested.
Alden suppressed a sad smile. “The rifles are your Marines too. I need someone I trust, who’ll wait till they’re needed, but won’t wait too long.” He paused. “I also need someone who’ll keep his head, and knows when it is too late. If that occurs, pull back immediately. If they knock down the whole line, save what you can and fall back on the hospital. You’ll be in command of the rear guard, as well as the effort to evacuate into the jungle. Is that understood?”
Chack blinked furiously. “You ask too much! To leave my Homes, my people . . .”
“I’m not asking shit!” Alden snarled. “I’m telling you what you will do! The only thing I’m asking is if you understand your duty.”
Chack slowly nodded. In the distance the raucous horns began to blare. The terrible thrumming sound continued to build until it seemed like thousands of them this time. The thunderous rumble of the shields rivaled even the nearby guns. Across the field in the flickering light, the Grik began to move.
Then, from nearby, a low moan was heard that seemed to have nothing to do with the approaching horde. Pete quickly looked in the direction many heads had turned. On the bay, considerably farther to the north now, a rising ball of fiery black smoke roiled into the air, briefly illuminating the stricken destroyer beneath it.
“Oh, my God,” Alden breathed. “Walker . . .”
“Damage report!” Matt bellowed, picking himself up off the deck. He already knew it was bad. He’d felt the heat of the blast, the ship physically yanked from under his feet. Already her speed was bleeding away. Throughout her sortie against the mammoth battle cruiser, Walker had seemed charmed. Salvo after salvo of her armor-piercing four-inch-fifties slammed home with telling effect, each shell blessed, kissed, or sent with a hateful curse. Amagi’s gunnery went wild, and Matt guessed they must’ve taken out her forward fire control. A few shell fragments from near misses, and some light antiaircraft fire was all the damage the destroyer received in return, in spite of the blizzard of five-and-a-half-inch shells thrashing the water all around her. Taking advantage of this, Walker continued to punish her adversary for several minutes longer than Matt originally intended; he just couldn’t help himself. Reason finally clawed its way back into hi
s consciousness, however, and finally, reluctantly, he gave the order to turn away. Walker raced up the bay toward the north inlet, making smoke.
By then, hidden in the darkness and her dense curtain of smoke, Walker had to have been invisible. The wind was still out of the south, and the man-made cloud spread, wafting around her. She’d ceased firing as soon as she turned, and all lights were out. Where she headed, there were no fires or lights to silhouette her, and overhead no moon b"3">“All ahead flank!” Matt shouted as his ship slowed even further. A few shells continued falling, but the fire was desultory now. They must think they got us, he realized. Stepping around the chart house and looking aft, he could see why. Walker was afire from just behind the bridge to somewhere aft of the amidships deckhouse. The Japanese shell must have penetrated the fuel bunker they’d installed in place of the number one boiler, and blown burning oil all over the ship. Steam gushed from somewhere to rise and mix with the black, greasy smoke. Even as he watched, hoses began to play on the fires.
“Captain!” Reynolds called behind him. “Mr. McFarlane says the number two boiler took a direct hit, and the fuel bunker’s been punctured! There’s major flooding in the forward fireroom—he says it’s gone, Skipper—there’s nothing he can do. There’s also minor flooding in the aft fireroom he thinks he can keep under control.”
“We’re losing steam!”
“Yes, sir. The valTell them they’d better already be out of the Great Hall, because it’s about to be remodeled.”
Amagi had stopped her advance, and now lay reflecting the fires and the glow of battle right in the middle of the bay. Several Grik ships were still nearby. One looked a little larger than the others. Maybe it was one of the white ones like Mallory had seen, Matt thought, as he watched Amagi’s main gun turrets train out to starboard. They fired.
Amagi’s bridge was a shambles. The American gunnery had been remarkably accurate, and several shells impacted uncomfortably close. Two of the bridge officers were dead, and even Kurokawa was lightly wounded when a shell fragment slashed his scalp and severed the brim of his hat. Even so, for the first time since the Strange Storm that brought them here, Captain Kurokawa felt an immense sense of satisfaction course through him. The puny American destroyer responsible for all his aggravation was afire and dead in the water. He’d contemplated finishing her, but she was clearly doomed. He’d let them see the destruction he woug He lowered his eyes in abject misery, and even above the sound of the crashing guns he heard Kurokawa’s thin laugh rise within the confines of the bridge.
Alan Letts heard the incoming rounds. He, O’Casey, and Nakja-Mur, as well as members of the command staff who hadn’t yet transferred to the secondary HQ, were preparing to descend the ladder from the lowest level of the Great Hall.
“Down!” Letts screamed, and for the next several moments there was nothing but the overwhelming sound and pressure of titanic detonations. The entire massive structure of the Great Hall sagged beneath them, and there was a terrific crash from above. Oil lamps fell from the walls and rolled away down the sloping floor. One came to rest beside a crumpled tapestry that once adorned the wall of the entrance chamber, and the beautifully woven fabric began to burn. In the eerie silence immediately following the salvo, a deep, rumbling groan could be heard.
Letts scrambled to his feet and looked quickly around. One of the runners had been crushed by a massive limb. It had fallen from the tree far above and crashed down through all three levels of the hall, driving him through the deck on which Alan stood with its jagged stump. The others rose shakily, but Nakja-Mur still lay sprawled. “Quickly!” he shouted at O’Casey. “We’ve got to get him out now! There may be only seconds before the next salvo!”
Between them and the staff members who’d gathered their wits, they managed to heave the High Chief through the opening and lower him quickly to the ground. By then Nakja-Mur was recovering his senses, and he looked around, blinking surprise. People were running in all directions, and the Great Hall no longer looked quite right. Flames leaped up from nearby structures, and over all there was a wailing, keening sound.
“Take his legs!” Alan yelled. O’Casey could only grab one, but there was plenty of help now. They ran as fast as they could toward the edge of the parade ground, while a sound like a roaring gale and tearing canvas descended upon them.
“Down!”
Even as they dropped, there came again the avalanche of deafening sound and mighty flashes of searing fire as the earth heaved into the sky.
Letts tried to stand, but fell to his knees, stunned by the proximity of the blast. He looked back. Somehow the Great Hall and Sacred Tree still stood, but the building was engulfed in flames. Any shells that actually struck it must have passed right through and detonated on the ground or against the tree itself. Flames licked up and across the huge sloping roof, clawing greedily at the branches above. Smoldering leaves and drifting ash descended all around. Up beyond the light of the fire where the tree disappeared into darkness, they could only just hear Naga’s plaintive, wailing chant.
“So now I see war as you are accustomed to it,” Nakja-Mur rasped beside him.
Letts glanced down and saw that the High Chief had risen to a sitting position. O’Casey just looked stunned. At least he’d acted, though.
“Nobody ever gets accustomedo it,div height="1em" width="1em">“You all tried to tell me, but I never . . .” Nakja-Mur’s eyes reflected an expression almost of wonder. He looked back in the direction they’d come. “The Tree . . . !”
Letts motioned the others to grab him. “Never mind the tree! We have to keep moving away from it, in case they aren’t satisfied with their handiwork yet.”
“The Tree . . .”
The arrival of the wounded at the central hospital had slowed to a trickle. Not that there was any shortage of them, but with the sound of battle coming from everywhere now, Sandra knew more should be arriving, not less. She saw Courtney Bradford talking with one of the young runners, and she quickly finished bandaging an Aryaalan’s wounded shoulder and jogged over to where he stood.
“What is it? What’s happening?” she demanded. Bradford turned to her, and his face seemed pasty in the torchlight.
“It’s . . . it’s all going according to plan,” he repeated once more.
She glared at him. “It’s not!” she snarled. “It can’t possibly be! There are no more wounded coming in. Have the field hospitals been overrun?”
“No—no, that’s not it at all. Most of the wounded are returning to the fight, and those who cannot must remain where they are for now. The ambulance corps have gone to strengthen the walls.”
“But . . . how . . .” She stopped. “We’re losing then?”
“Not as you would say losing, precisely,” Bradford hedged.
“What were you and that messenger just talking about?”
“Um. Well, you see, I’ve been asked to send whoever can still wield a weapon up to the east wall. It’s not engaged—and probably won’t be,” he quickly added, “but they’ve taken everyone off it to reinforce those areas that are.” He stopped. “We’ve also been told to prepare to evacuate into the jungle if the word should come. If it does, we must move quickly.”
Sandra felt numb. “Is there any word of Walker, or . . . or Captain Reddy?” she asked quietly.
Bradford’s expression became even more strained, and he placed a hand on her shoulder. “Walker is afire, my dear,” he said gently, “and dead in the water.” He gestured vaguely. “She gave a lovely account of herself but . . .” He shook his head. “The Japs aren’t even shooting at her anymore.”
Sandra could only stand and stare at him as hot tears came to her eyes. “Mr. Bradford,” she said very formally, voice brittle as glass, “would you be so kind as to cover for me here awhile?”
He gawked at her and then looked helplessly around. “Don’t be ridiculous! I don’t have the faintest idea—”
“Ahead full. Left full rudder! We’ll wiggle around a li
ttle until we know whether they noticed the impulse charge.” As the ship came about, Jim moved to the port wing and raised his glasses. First he looked aft, making sure the sharp turn wasn’t too much for the launch to follow; then he looked to Amagi as she appeared aft, beyond the funnels.
“Rudder amidships!” he called. Amagi was still clearly outlined, still busy with her terrible work. She’d taken no notice of what transpired to port. Jim focused the glasses more carefully, then clenched them in his hands.
“No!” he moaned. A Grik ship was slowly creeping up alongside Amagi, the black outline of its masts and sails beginning to obscure the stern of the Japanese ship. “How deep is that fish?” he shouted across the pilothouse. Sandison looked up in alarm and raced to his side.
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