Iron Gray Sea: Destroyermen (13 page)

“Of course not, Cap-i-taan Reddy.”

“Good. Silva, go with ’em. Pick up Campeti on the way. We’ll have to test them, obviously, and recalibrate the gun director, but I want to know what all of you think immediately. Ask Spanky and Tabby to join us up here as well.” He looked around the table, his gaze fastening on Governor Radcliff. “I don’t mean to impose, sir. If you’d rather I go back to my ship . . .”

“Absolutely not! No imposition at all. Battles are complex things, I’m told, and though I’ve no notion how to fight one, perhaps I can learn a bit about preparing for one, at least.”

“Thank you, sir,” Matt said sincerely. “And if you or your officers have any questions—or suggestions—I’d love to hear them.” He looked at Sandra then and saw her desolate expression. He’d called her bluff and she’d backed down, as he knew she would. He actually agreed with many of her arguments . . . and maybe his judgment
was
affected? He
was
tired; everyone was, and they’d desperately needed this . . . respite. He could also tell that she knew he was right as well, however. Particularly as the new threat sank in. She never would have retreated otherwise. Not for the first time, the two absolute necessities they advocated were irreconcilable. But this time, for the first time, he was afraid it might tear them apart. He longed to hold her, reassure her, and wished they could take some time alone. Maybe later, if she’d allow it. For now, he had to plan. So did Sandra, it seemed, because Emelia Radcliff suddenly rose and tugged her by the hand.

“You men may draft your war,” she said a little harshly. “Lady Sandra and I will try to salvage her wedding—if it is still to occur at all.” She stared hard at Matt, and though he could tell she was angry, he was surprised to get the impression she wasn’t only mad at him. Sandra wouldn’t—couldn’t, he thought—meet his gaze. “I presume you won’t be steaming away again at first light, Captain Reddy?”

“No, ma’am,” Matt replied quietly. “We couldn’t if I wanted to. We’ll have to remain here several days, at least.”

“Gomez!” Governor Radcliff suddenly called. “You may clear away the debris of our meal now. And do bring brandy, if you please!”

CHAPTER
6

////// Respite Island

March 2, 1944

S
hockingly well-crafted, almost
furniture-grade
wooden crates of dazzlingly polished (four each) four-inch-fifty shells came aboard in the early-morning light and were shifted to the magazines fore and aft. Campeti crouched beside one such crate, the lead-painted lid prized off, shuffling thoughtfully through a sheaf of pages. Stites was poking around in the cluster of carefully swaddled, white-painted Baalkpan bamboo tubes protecting the ammunition, and Silva sat on the deck with one of the heavy, gleaming, fixed cartridges on his lap, fingering the waxed-paper seal at the nose of the projectile where the similarly carefully shipped fuses would be inserted. They were surrounded by nearly the entire ordnance division, as well as many onlookers.

“Looks like a sculpterin!” Silva said, beaming. “And we don’t even have to put ’em together.”

“Prob’ly don’t trust us to,” commented Stites.

“Yeah, this reads like a novel,” Campeti agreed, waving the spec sheets. “It looks like ol’ Bernie’s done us proud, though. Get a load o’ this! He’s detailed everything they put into these beauties. There’s bagged—he calls it ‘Explosive B,’ for ‘Baalkpan,’ or maybe ‘Bernie’!—charges in the shells on top of a priming charge.” He chuckled belatedly. “Bernie bullets! Anyway, he swears they’ll fly like they’re supposed to. Now I can scrape my paint markers off the gun-director dials!”

“Quit screwin’ around with that ammunition out here,” Gray roared, suddenly surging through the gaggle with Bashear in tow. He stopped and saluted when he noticed Campeti for the first time. “Sorry,
Mr
. Campeti. We didn’t know it was
you
playin’ with dangerous explosives on
our
deck.”

“Don’t apologize, SB!” Campeti said sheepishly. It hadn’t been that long since he’d been a chief, and the Super Bosun’s word was still law as far as he was concerned. “It’s my fault. I just couldn’t wait to see what was under the Christmas tree.” He turned to the others. “You heard the man. Silva, put that thing back in the tube and secure the crate. You other guys, get the rest of this stuff stowed away. Stites, get a count on what we have to offload to make room for all this. I know it’s weird having
too much
ammunition for a change, but we just have to cope.”

The ordnance strikers snatched crates and took off, blinking rapidly, and the onlookers scattered before Gray or Bashear could think of more duties—like chipping paint—to keep them properly occupied. A strange sound froze them in their tracks, however, and most stared up at the sky, shading their eyes. With excited shouts and chittering, they began pointing into the air, and many crowded toward the starboard safety chains to gawk. Wordlessly, Gray and Bashear joined Campeti as he followed suit. Soon, most of
Walker
’s crew was lining her starboard rail, watching with the awkward amazement of children allowed through the tent flap of the traveling freak show for the very first time, while two lumbering behemoths passed overhead and began a banking descent toward the bay.

The aircraft were obviously the promised “Manila Clippers,” and they were . . . quite a sight. They were the first real departure from the initial aircraft designs the Alliance had put in production. Nancys had a single, central-mounted “pusher” engine, while the bigger “Buzzards” had been built along the same lines, with an extra pair of outboard engines. But the “Clippers,” or PB-5s, had four larger, more powerful versions of the Wright Gipsy–type power plant that had become so ubiquitous, mounted atop a much bigger, broader wing attached to the top of a deeper, longer fuselage with an enclosed cockpit. Instead of wingtip floats, there were bulbous, aerodynamic protrusions on each side of the fuselage to provide stability in the water.

Even Captain Reddy was not immune to the excitement, and he stepped out on the starboard bridgewing with his binoculars. Looking through them, he caught his first glimpse of the latest thing in long-range aircraft on this world.

“Holy smoke,” he muttered appreciatively, adjusting the focus. He suspected that the contraptions were actually a little bigger than their old, lost PBY, while still lighter and possibly even stronger, with their diagonally braced and laminated bamboo-and-fabric construction. They sure looked more robust than a Nancy, although the high, exposed, forward-facing engine mounts appeared a little delicate.

“Big suckers,” Spanky said beside him. “Ugly, though.”

“How can you say such a thing?” Matt demanded with a grin, watching the morning sun wash across the blue-and-white-painted planes as they lined up for their approach, maintaining their somewhat gangly-looking formation. “Ben say’s they’ll carry ten passengers—or almost a ton of bombs! Maybe they’re not B-17s, but that makes them beautiful to me!”

“Why send two of ’em? We’re not even sending ten people.”

“Insurance. One is carrying extra fuel and parts. It’ll also be there in case the one carrying passengers has to set down. They’re pretty important passengers, you know, and this is their longest flight to date.”

“Sure. Say, that reminds me. You still sending Silva home? What with us maybe—hopefully—catching that Jap tin can. He’s mighty useful in a scrape.”

“I know, but he goes. Adar really wants his ‘expedition,’ and it’s a good idea. It’s also liable to be dangerous as hell, and Silva likes Cook. He’ll take good care of the kid. I know we don’t have a lot of guys left who’ve seen action against a modern opponent, but Campeti’s got Stites, and with Silva helping train them, the gunnery division’s in good shape.” He grinned. “Besides, if we let him tag along, we’ll never get rid of him, and the expedition’ll start without him. Remember the last time he was supposed to get on a plane in Maa-ni-la? He gave them the slip. Most of the yard workers familiar with
Walker
are in Baalkpan, but I’ll put her in the Maa-ni-la dry dock if I can, and we might be there for a while.” He chuckled. “You have to give the devil his due; Silva knows how to stomp all over the line without—exactly—crossing it. Better to get rid of him now, while I can
watch
him get on the damn plane.”

The planes thumped down on the still water almost in unison and began motoring closer to the dock.

“Larry likes Cook too,” Spanky said, referring to the Grik-like Sa’aaran. “I bet he’d blow if he thought Silva was going to try to skip the flight. Next to Princess Becky, I think Silva’s his best friend, but he’s got his own people to worry about now. I know he’s hoping to recruit more . . . lizard folks to join Chinakru’s new colony on Samaar.”

“Probably,” Matt agreed, as the big planes wallowed toward the pier—and the hundreds of spectators gathered there.

“Speaking of passengers,” Spanky said, then hesitated. He saw Matt looking at him expectantly and forged ahead. “Uh . . . what are you going to do with Lieutenant Tucker?” He suddenly felt his face heat. “I mean, uh, after tonight, damn it!” Spanky took a breath. “Are you going to send her home too?”

Matt glumly returned his exec’s gaze. “No, Mr. McFarlane,” he said in a formal tone. “Despite the imminent change in her . . . marital status, the Nurse Lieutenant will accompany us in search of
Hidoiame
. She’s been
Walker
’s medical officer, and there are no competent replacements currently on hand.” He took a deep breath and looked back into the pilothouse before speaking in a lower tone. “I had to make a deal, damn it. Since the wedding will be a hurry-up affair, and the honeymoon will consist of two days in a beachside hut—while you, Commander McFarlane, do all the work necessary to get this ship underway—I had to bend the regulation about married personnel aboard the same ship. Technically, she’s already been transferred back to her duties in Baalkpan, but considering the very real possibility we may sustain casualties, she’s ‘volunteered’ her medical services for however long it takes for her to report.”

“The plane would be ‘first available transport,’ Skipper.”

“No, Mr. McFarlane. We will maintain the fiction that the planes had already departed before the decision to proceed with the . . . nuptials was finalized, and since we are no longer technically part of the same ship’s company . . .”

“I got it, Skipper,” Spanky said with a spreading grin. “I can’t say ‘Remind me never to play poker with that woman,’ because I don’t much like the game. But I guess I’d be careful wagering against her in a chess match, after this.”

* * * 

With plenty of fresh water now aboard, Matt indulged in a long, hot shower. He had a lot on his mind. There was so much he
should
be doing right now—preparations and decisions to make—but for now, the work really involved only his ship, and he had to admit that Spanky and his other officers were fully capable of filling his shoes in that respect for the next few days. Isolated as he was, there was little he could contribute to the grand strategy of the overall war effort as it unfolded on the far-flung fronts. He’d agreed to the proposals of his commanders on the scene and trusted their judgment, based on their much better appreciation of their circumstances. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—second-guess their decisions while he was thousands of miles away. They’d planned the overall strategy together, and it was up to them to carry it out.

He still felt uncomfortably as if he were playing premeditated hooky, and it gnawed at him. There was also a sense of unreality that tended to mask his excitement and dull his anticipation regarding the evening’s . . . event, and he was almost grateful, because the dreamlike nature of it all helped keep his lurking anxiety at bay.

Despite his . . . unusual feelings, he was in a good mood—almost giddy—and seemed possessed of an abundance of almost jittery energy. He turned off the water, wrenched the tattered green curtain aside, and grabbed a towel. Mostly dry, he pulled on his skivvies and started aft, whistling “Deep in the Heart of Texas” while still vigorously toweling his freshly trimmed hair. He almost didn’t see Diania standing at rigid attention and holding a salute as he padded through the wardroom.

“Jesus, girl!” he shouted defensively, quickly wrapping the towel around his middle. “What are you doing here?”

The forward crew’s head had—of necessity, in Matt’s view—been reserved for all “female” personnel. It made things inconvenient for everyone, and there was a lot of griping, but the human destroyermen still aboard simply weren’t ready, in any sense, for coed crappers. Exceptions were made when the crew was at battle stations, but even then, some care was exercised—a knock on a bulkhead, a shout of warning. While
Walker
was at anchor, a meagerly screened “fantail crapper” was rigged over the starboard propeller guard, and anybody could use that. It took a little of the pressure off.

“The Lady . . . Lieutenant Sandra sent me ta’ fetch somethin’ fer her . . . an’ I coudnae find Mr. Marcos!” Diania stuttered fearfully. She deeply admired Captain Reddy, but she was scared of him too. In her mind, he had more power than the Governor-Emperor—and she knew he was against women in the Navy.

“Well, get whatever it is and scram!” Matt said less harshly. “And in the future, don’t go running around officers’ country without an escort!” he added a little apologetically, suddenly struck by his hypocrisy. They probably had to deal with this all the time in the crew’s berthing spaces, and despite her status as engineering officer, Lieutenant Tabby had remained in the aft crew’s berth. But Sandra lived in “officers’ country.” Of course, she’d been there long enough to know the rules, to make her presence known, and, besides, well, she was a “doctor.”

That didn’t mean the arrangement was fair, and things were bound to get more complicated soon, particularly as more women inevitably joined them. He realized that without thinking about it, and
because
he hadn’t thought about it, he’d left a glaring, possibly hurtful hole in his otherwise blanket insistence that Lemurian females—and he guessed women too, now—had to receive, to
count on
, equal treatment in all respects. It seemed just like the Lemurians, Matt’s men were always having to make adjustments. He sighed.

“Forget it, Diania,” he said. “And, by the way, we don’t salute indoors.” He tightened his towel and marched down the passageway to his stateroom, realizing he needed to pass the word for Tabby to shift her gear forward—and the chiefs’ quarters were going to get more crowded too. The men might bitch, but with the bigger jobs came the few perks that helped reinforce a chief’s or officer’s authority. He determined then that aboard
Walker
, and in
his
Navy, discrimination of any sort would never be tolerated—
Except when it comes to the heads,
he amended.

By the time he pushed his own curtain aside and hung up the towel over his little sink, he was whistling again.

* * * 

Resplendent in their immaculate Whites—and God knew how Juan and his small division of stewards and laundry ’Cats had accomplished
that
—Matt and his party stepped ashore and boarded the trolley waiting to take them to the Cathedral of St. Brenden in the heart of Respite City. It was the first covered trolley Matt had seen and it was generously carved and gilded. The driver told them that it once belonged to the Company director, but Matt was grateful for the protection it afforded them, because the humidity in the valley where the bulk of the city lay was oppressive and afternoon storms were common. Other trolleys would bring a large percentage of the rest of the crew to join them, leaving a small but alert watch aboard the ship. Maybe Matt had grown paranoid, but it seemed to him that far too many bad things seemed to happen whenever their guard was down, and even Governor Radcliff agreed. The Respite militia was in a high state of readiness, and a couple of picket ships had been sent beyond the reef to reinforce and broaden the range of the guard ships stationed there.