Against the Tide Imperial: The Struggle for Ceylon (The Usurper's War: An Alternative World War II Book 3)

by James Young

  “I got ten bucks says we make five,” someone muttered over the net.

  “Hell, I’ll take odds on seven,” came another response.

  “Clear the net,” Brigante said, his voice stern. “It’s a three day pass if we get eight.”

  There were several incredulous whoops over the radio net. Eric shook his head.

  Even if we had VS-11 helping us, there’s no way we’d hit eight. Eric picked up his binoculars to look over the stopped vessel. The British heavy cruiser resembled the high-sided, three-funneled vessels they’d all seen in Australia. Eric was about to suggest that at least one section should make sure of that vessel, then reconsidered.

  Unlike the late Lieutenant Commander Hitchcock, Brigante actually knows what he’s doing. He secured his binoculars so they didn't fly up and hit him in the face during the dive. The surface boys are only three hours away and there’s plenty of daylight left. If they can’t catch and finish a cripple, that’s not our problem.

  “Wind’s out of the south at about fifteen knots,” Brigante noted as VB-11 finished circling and began boring in. Anti-aircraft bursts reached up towards them as the ships below opened fire and went into evasive maneuvers. Eric watched Red section reach its pushover point and once more went through the steps to prepare his own Dauntless.

  Just as he finished extending the dive brakes, a shell burst off their port wing. The thumps of fragments slamming into the SBD’s side was accompanied by a curse from Brown, then it was too late to pay attention to anything else. Pushing over, Eric saw the battleship’s superstructure alive with flashes, its graceful lines already marred by two areas where bombs had hit her.

  “You okay, Brown?” he asked, pushing his head forward to the bomb sight.

  “Yes!” Brown replied, voice pained.

  Ahead of them, Red Two disintegrated, some sort of shell touching off the SBD’s bomb. The sight caused Eric’s bladder to loosen, and he had a brief flashback to the death of his squadron leader off Ranger. Screaming, he forced the image from his mind and bore down on the target.

  “Sir?”

  “I’m fine!” Eric snapped. “Altitude!”

  “Six thousand!”

  We’re almost becoming experts at this, Eric exulted. There was a bright flash on the target as Lieutenant Commander Brigante’s bomb struck the forward turret. The explosion was spectacular, but Eric bet that the thick roof armor meant no real damage would be done. Tracers shot by their SBD, and Eric resolutely held his position. Then they were past two thousand feet and he was releasing, counting to two, then stomping rudder and pulling back hard on the stick. He heard Brown’s machine guns firing as the tail gunner sent some love messages back at the battleship’s gunners.

  “Missed sir, close to port,” Brown said in between bursts.

  Dammit. Eric picked a path out through the screen at just over five hundred feet. An Italian destroyer fired on him briefly, the medium AA gun’s shell exploding four lengths behind. Then they were through, and Eric was putting the Dauntless into a shallow climb to clear the area.

  “Talk to me Brown,” Eric said, turning around in his seat.

  “Just a fragment wound, sir,” Brown said. “I’m not even really bleeding.”

  Eric put the Dauntless in a gentle turn and scanned for his wingmen. Both had managed to stay fairly close to Eric as he egressed, and rejoining was easy. With both ensigns gathered, Eric turned to look back at VB-11’s collective handiwork.

  She’s going to spend some time in the yard, but she’s far from lamed, Eric thought. The vessel appeared to be of the Cavour-class, which meant she was the Giulio Cesare as the Conte di Cavour lay on the bottom of Gibraltar harbor. A major fire raged amidships, with a smaller blaze near her bridge, but she continued to steam south at near full speed.

  Long day of chase for little gain, Eric mused, then grimaced as he looked south where two floating pyres burned. I doubt those carrier crewmen would agree that little was accomplished today.

  In the end, Vice Admiral Fletcher stopped TF 25’s pursuit to the south due to fuel concerns. The Dido would live to see another day. The battered Sussex would not. With her machinery spaces holed and power knocked out by the rare event of functioning American torpedoes, the heavy cruiser had no means to stop the progressive flooding in her hull. Two hours after TF 24's air groups had departed, her amidships' bulkheads finally gave way due to inexorable pressure. As she rolled over, what Vice Admiral Godfrey dubbed “The Action of 4 August” and his Italian counterparts named “The Battle of Mogadishu” ended with a desultory whimper rather than a fleet action.

  Morton Residence

  1200 Local (1700 Eastern)

  6 August

  The knock on the door startled Josephine just as she was starting to slice into the tomato she was cutting for her lunch sandwich. The sharp sting from the fruit’s juice spilling on her finger was confirmation she had cut the digit, and Josephine took a moment to loudly curse her roommate.

  Why, why, WHY must every knife in this house be so keen that chickens not even born yet are already bleeding in anticipation? Jo grabbed the nearby dish towel to staunch the wound.

  It was a short walk to the front door, which explained some of Jo’s annoyance when the knock came again. That emotion disappeared as she looked through the front window to see a Navy commander and a pair of Marine noncommissioned officers standing in the doorway. The officer was in whites and his companions were in khakis, with the enlisted men bearing sidearms.

  What in the Hell is this? Jo wondered after the momentary panic had passed. Casualty notifications, especially for officers’ families, were not done by enlisted men. That much she knew from recent, dark experience.

  It seems like half this neighborhood got a visit after the Battle of Hawaii. It was an exaggeration, but not much of once. Pausing before she opened the door, Jo studied the men in front of her. The officer was very pale, the fairness of his skin causing his freckles to stand out even more. Jo noted that the man’s hair was a red so dark it was almost brown, yet his blue eyes were almost luminescent. Although she was quite taken by a certain dive bomber pilot, she could acknowledge that the combination was striking and memorable with his patrician features.

  Well, guess I can’t make them stand out there forever, she realized. Taking a breath to steady herself, she opened the door.

  “Can I help you, Commander?” she asked, clenching the finger tighter involuntarily.

  “Pardon me, but are you Miss Morton or Miss Cobb?” the officer replied.

  “I am certain that your mother told you it was impolite to answer a question with a question, Commander…” Jo began, then obviously looked at the officer’s nametag, “…Tannehill.”

  The officer nodded, blushing slightly as he checked his notes.

  “You are right, Miss Morton,” he said after a moment. Jo raised an eyebrow at the action, seeing both Marines looking at the officer as if he were an idiot.

  “Please tell me the note did not say, ‘if she gives you sass, it’s Josephine,’” Jo stated. “Because there are numerous individuals, all of whom we are related to, who may have mistakenly wrote that down in a note.”

  The officer’s blush deepened, and stammered over his words.

  “N-n-no, Miss Morton, the notes actually say that you’re the one with a strong northeastern accent. It comes out a great deal when you’re…uh…”

  Jo crossed her arms, then remembered her finger was still bleeding.

  “Goddammit,” she said, then realized apparently the pressure had worked. She looked up at Tannehill giving her a faint look of disapproval, even as the two noncoms starting to smile somewhat. Both Marines were broad-shouldered men of average height, their features so nondescript that Jo wondered if she could have picked them out of a line up if they’d actually meant her harm. The one with light, blonde hair was a sergeant whose nametag read Blaesa. The other man, a gunnery sergeant with black hair, was apparently named Longstreet.

  “Lo
ok, if you’re going to judge me for taking the Lord’s name in vain, you need to hurry up and say whatever you’re going to do and get on your way, Commander,” she snapped. “I assure you, I am a sailor’s daughter, and my father was not exactly the best at raising me in good graces.”

  Commander Tannehill almost took a step back before steadying himself.

  “Well, I’ll cut to the chase,” he replied. “Would you like to come work for my department at Pearl Harbor?”

  Jo raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m sorry, Commander Tannehill, but your department?”

  “Yes, Miss Morton, my department,” he replied. “I assure you it’s nothing sinister, but I am not at liberty to discuss it here standing on your porch.”

  So you expect me to let three strange men into my house in the middle of the day? Jo mulled, even as she fought to keep her face serene. Hmm, maybe I should have kept that knife in my hand.

  “Josephine, is there something wrong?” Alf Olrik, Patricia and her’s neighbor, asked. The dock worker had come out to stand on his front porch in his overalls, half-eaten sandwich in one hand, a large wrench held oh-so-casually in the other. The two Marine noncoms both noticed the tool and took steps back from behind Commander Tannehill. For his part, Commander Tannehill was looking at Olaf as if a walking, talking bear had just appeared in front of him.

  If you think Olaf is big, just wait until you meet either Sam or David. That would require a long plane or boat ride, but still.

  “No Alf,” she said. “I believe Commander Tannehill was asking me if I was still interested in working in the stenography section at Pearl Harbor.”

  Alf nodded, taking another bite of his sandwich.

  “Very good,” he said. “Niole has some cookies coming out of the oven. Since you have guests, perhaps it’ll be better if she brings a batch by in about ten minutes?”

  I love my neighbors.

  “That sounds lovely,” she replied. “I’m sure Commander Tannehill and his men would love some as well.”

  “Actually I’m allergic to–” Commander Tannehill started to mutter.

  “I’m not allergic to a thing, Miss Morton,” one of the NCOs interrupted him, smiling and nodding at Alf.

  Alf gave one more smile and waved the hand full of sandwich at the men, then stepped back inside his house.

  You’d all be very scared if you realized he’s left handed, Jo thought. Sure from what I’ve seen when he’s helped us around the house the man is actually ambidextrous, but Alf had every intention of smashing some skulls when he came out here.

  “Well, looks like you’ve got ten minutes to explain this work to me, commander,” Jo stated, her voice airy.

  Okay, we’re all very lucky that I’m sitting down, or Alf might have come over to find me passed out in the kitchen from shock, Jo thought. She chewed slowly on her sandwich, mulling things over.

  “So just to make sure I completely understand, you have out of the blue decided to ask me to work on a very secret project copying information from broken codes? Of which you are also going to go ask my roommate?”

  “This is actually hardly out of the blue, Miss Morton,” Commander Tannehill responded. “It should come as no surprise to you that both Miss Cobb and yourself are known to many of the officers on post.”

  Jo once more gave Commander Tannehill a look that was best described as suspicious, and once more the officer began growing flustered.

  I know most redheads look ten years younger than they actually are, but he really does seem way too inexperienced for his rank.

  “What I mean is, when I began asking around for possible nominees for these positions, your names came up several times,” Commander Tannehill said.

  “Why us?”

  Commander Tannehill was about to answer when there was a knock at the kitchen door. Turning, Jo didn’t immediately see anyone, then looked down and saw a child’s head just barely poking above the window.

  “Excuse me for a moment, but I believe those are cookies,” Jo stated. She opened the door to reveal Anya, the youngest Olrik daughter. The precocious five-year-old was holding a plate of what appeared to be chocolate chip cookies, and immediately began speaking with great urgency.

  “Mama said to come over here and hand you these cookies,” the little girl said. “I was also supposed to make sure no one was hurting you.”

  Jo heard Gunnery Sergeant Longstreet guffaw behind her as she too began to smile. Leaning down, she took the cookies and kneeled down to look Anya in the face.

  “I don’t think you were supposed to tell me the last part,” she whispered. Anya’s eyes grew wide as Jo held her finger up to her mouth in a shushing motion.

  “Tell your mother I’ll be over for dinner later, and thank you for the cookies,” Jo said, then took the plate. Patting Anya on the shoulder, Jo barely avoided letting out a giggle. “I’ll see you later, and I’ll bring a book with me.”

  Anya’s eyes brightened at that, and she quickly tore off back towards her house.

  “You certainly seem to have a good relationship with your neighbors,” Commander Tannehill observed.

  “You have no idea,” Jo said, grinning as she put the cookie plate down on the table. “They’re really good kids, and Niole brings them by the library all the time.”

  Longstreet stepped forward and took a cookie, and her mental attention switched back to the matter at hand.

  “So, again, why us?” she asked. “I’d hardly think we have some magical powers.”

  “Actually, we have found that women make better codebreakers than men,” Commander Tannehill replied. “For some reason, women are very good at picking out patterns and rhythms, and that’s what’s necessary for good cryptography.”

  “Are you married, Commander Tannehill?” Jo asked conversationally. Tannehill looked at her, quite startled, as Longstreet and Blaesa both chuckled.

  “I’m not propositioning you,” Jo said, face reddening. “I just find it odd that women’s ability to pick out patterns and rhythms, as you put it, is mysterious to you.”

  “No, I am not married,” Tannehill said quickly. “I’ve never really had much luck with women.”

  “Interesting,” Jo said, noting that both Longstreet and Blaesa were entirely too happy with watching Commander Tannehill squirm.

  “I wouldn’t get too amused, gentlemen,” she said, turning to look at them. “If we’re to be working together, I’m pretty sure I’ll have opportunities to ask you embarrassing questions as well.”

  Gunnery Sergeant Longstreet had the decency to looked nonplussed at her idle threat. Blaesa met her eyes briefly as she turned back to Tannehill.

  “When do you need me to start?” Jo asked. “I’ve already worked today and I’d like to give my bosses at least a day’s notice. Does Monday work?”

  Tannehill was still flustered as he considered the proposed timeline.

  “Yes, that will do well,” he said.

  “Where will I be going to?” Jo asked. “I am guessing I can’t just show up at the gates to Pearl Harbor and say, ‘I’m looking for the super secret facility with the single redhead commander,’ can I?”

  Tannehill’s blush returned.

  “No, you cannot,” he said hurriedly. “But if you ask for the Smithsonian Ferry Company, the front gate guards know who to call.”

  That doesn’t sound fishy at all.

  “When are you going to ask Patricia?”

  “I was hoping to catch you both home for lunch, but I see that was futile.”

  “Toots is probably contemplating homicide against her boss somewhere in the Navy Yard,” Jo said. “She would likely appreciate the interruption.”

  The smell of Frances’ cologne hung in the draft room like an oppressive cloud. Patricia had trouble deciding which she hated worse, the man’s general scent or the midday bourbon on his breath.

  “Miss Cobb, I must commend you once more on your fine work,” he said, pressing closely into her left side.


  Oh God, I really hope that is his flask that is pressing into my hip, she thought, nausea swimming over her. Frances had become more…brazen in the past few days. Patricia worried it was a vicious cycle of the increased work in drafting modernization plans driving Frances to drink. His inebriation, in turn, made him more amorous towards the small coterie of young women in Patricia’s office. Although she would not have necessarily considered herself of sterner stuff than her colleagues, many of them had taken sick days in the aftermath of having Frances press himself on them.

  Or maybe it’s just that I realize everything I’m doing is bringing Charles closer to coming home. Wherever he may happen to be.

  Frances studied the U.S.S. Northampton’s lines on the drafting table in front of Patricia. Anticipating his next maneuver, she twisted out of reach of the hand beneath the table’s edge that would have landed squarely on her posterior if she’d not adroitly dodged.

  I would smack you if I believed it would make any difference, Patricia thought, heart racing. One of the women had complained to Commander Evanston, the officer in charge, a week prior. That woman had soon found herself reassigned to the stenographer’s pool and another local woman in her place. Patricia didn’t think someone needed a degree in hieroglyphics to make the connection.

  “Sir, when do they think the Northampton will begin these modifications?” Patricia asked, attempting to distract Frances.

  “You’d have to talk to the dock draftsmen,” Frances said. “I just know that we have far too many plans coming in here for copying or modification over the last couple of days.”

  Why, you’d almost think there was a war on. The Pacific Fleet was only just now finally catching up with all the damage from the Battle of Hawaii. In a macabre way, it was fortunate the Japanese had sunk the California, Long Island, and Archer outright. Many more vessels returning to Oahu would have resulted in more ships being sent back to the West Coast.

  “Excuse me, Frances, I have to go to the ladies room,” Patricia said, stepping away from the table. When she returned fifteen minutes later, Frances had moved on to harassing another one of her coworkers in the office.