Iron Gray Sea: Destroyermen (31 page)

“Where?!”

Dennis pushed the binoculars down, about the same time chittering laughter erupted in the stands.

“Oh, goddamn!” Ronson spat when he saw his torpedo floating on the surface about forty yards away, its slowly turning propellers pushing it directly back at them like a chastened dog.

“Better luck next time, Mr. Rodriguez!” Silva said with theatrical solemnity.

“I . . . I don’t get it. It must’ve shorted out.”

The launch of the third torpedo, the “Mk-3” was the last event of the day, and everyone knew it was supposed to be a somehow more advanced version of the first, so a lot was expected. All preparations were apparently the same as those previous, but as a “hot” torpedo, it was equipped with a fuel source—kerosene—that would send a jet of flame into the air flask as the resultant hot, expanding air and kerosene exhaust gushed into the motor. Theoretically, this would generate exponentially greater pressure, speed—and heat, of course. That was how it worked on the Mk-14 torpedo they’d copied in most ways except the engine. They were experimenting with turbines for the short-lived torpedoes, but like the batteries, they weren’t there yet. After the directional and depth performance of the Mk-1, however, Bernie was emboldened to think the Mk-3 was “it,” and with yet another signal from Adar, he confidently pulled the lanyard.

The tube
boomp
ed again and the fish lashed out into the water, leaving a far more energetic trail of steamy froth behind.

“’Ook at her go!” Lawrence cried excitedly. Compared to the first two, the Mk-3 was indeed going like a bat out of hell. Bernie was the first to notice that the wake looked a little . . . wobbly, though, and his fingers clenched his binoculars more tightly. Nearly to the first boat, the torpedo suddenly porpoised, almost leaping out of the water for an instant before diving under the boat and the erratically waving flag.

“Now!” a striker shouted.

“Maybe thirty knots!” Abel cried in response. He’d been looking at his watch and hadn’t seen the surprising caper. At perhaps three hundred tails, the torpedo jumped again, significantly off track to the left, and this time it looked like a leaping fish, the sun glinting sharply off its polished body. It fell back in the water with an enormous splash and a crazy corkscrew of foam. Seconds later, a large, steamy bubble exploded on the surface close enough to rock the second boat and nearly toss several of the observers into the bay.

“Wow,” Ronson gushed, and Bernie rounded on him.

“I’d say that one went hot, crooked, and abnormal as hell,” Dennis quipped, “but between it and the first, it looks like you’re circlin’ the right tree, Mr. Sandison!”

Bernie spun to face Silva, enraged and embarrassed, but when he didn’t see the mocking expression he’d expected, he took a breath.

“He’s right,” Ronson said, waving toward the standing, cheering spectators. “And everybody knows it but you! Sure, it’s not perfect. Mine sure wasn’t! But it
did
work . . . mostly. And you’ll figure out what didn’t.” He grinned and pointed at the torpedo mount, smoke still hazing the third tube. “Just think: by the time the Skipper gets back with
Walker
, we can put that back on her—and stick fish in it too!”

CHAPTER
17

T
he Torpedo Day festivities at an end, all those in charge of the various divisions who’d participated joined Adar and most of the Allied high command at long banquet tables beneath a colorful pavilion rigged considerably back from the old seaplane ramp. The spectators dispersed rapidly as the usual afternoon showers threatened, and guards were posted to keep the curious from disturbing the planned debriefing discussion.

Silva and Lawrence sat near Bernie, but a little to themselves, with Silva suddenly unsure he was supposed to be there. The gathering had a kind of “no enlisted men allowed” air to it, which was very unusual in Baalkpan, but he’d simply followed Mr. Sandison, Ronson, and Abel Cook when they made their way over, and they didn’t object. Lawrence had followed him and probably never noticed the odd atmosphere. Risa sat with a group of ’Cat Marine officers and other infantry types. Something was up, Dennis decided. Something besides the debrief, and he’d hang around until he found out what it was or somebody ran him off.

Adar, wearing a grin, stood near the head of the central table, and his body language displayed pleasure as he spoke briefly with Alan Letts, Steve Riggs, Bernie, Ronson, and a late-arriving Ben Mallory. But Silva knew Adar well enough to tell when the dignified Lemurian was distracted by weighty matters. He controlled his blinking well, but his tail betrayed a measure of agitation. Ben’s appearance with a couple other guys Dennis didn’t know—including an army sergeant in grease-darkened coveralls that made him more comfortable about being there—seemed to be the signal to begin. A few moments later, Alan stood beside Adar.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Alan began, nodding at a small group of ex-pat Impie women in Navy dress who were probably ensigns or lieutenants in his new logistics division. Sitting with them was Alan’s wife, Karen, in her surgeon commander uniform. She didn’t have her new daughter, Allison Verdia, with her, and Dennis realized he hadn’t even seen the little scudder yet.

“We have a lot to go over, some good . . . and some not so much,” Letts said, confirming Silva’s suspicions. “We’ll get right to it. First I want to say how pleased I am at the results of the day’s testing, not only from a technical standpoint, but from the obvious good it did for the many spectators to see the results of their labor and sacrifice.” He turned to Adar. “Mr. Chairman, would you like to speak to that point before we proceed?”

“Absolutely,” Adar said. “I am told that not all the experiments resulted in absolute satisfaction for those who performed them, but with a few small exceptions, that was not abundantly clear to those watching. What
was
clear is that great progress has been made toward developing modern weapons of all types and principles that represent profound advances beyond what has already been achieved.” He waved a hand. “If some few of those weapons still require further development, none consider them failures. I emphatically do not, and I bear no doubt they will soon be perfected.” He looked directly at Bernie and smiled, blinking reassurance. “Your experimental ordnance division has made great strides, Mr. Saan-dison. I can scarcely believe it. You demonstrated new small arms, naval artillery, and three varieties of torpedoes today! All were successful, or at least succeeded magnificently in demonstrating what few defects remain to be resolved. You have my utmost appreciation and thanks, sir!”

Bernie stood. “Ah, thanks, Mr. Chairman. I appreciate it, and so will my division.”

Adar turned to Ben Mallory. “Colonel, I am astounded. Not only are there now eighteen fully operational ‘pee-forties’ ready for combat in all respects, but you have a sufficient pool of experienced aviators and ground persons to operate and maintain them—wherever they might be employed.”

Ben stood and looked around with a mixture of self-consciousness and lingering irritation. Dennis noted that Pam Cross was seated beside the airman, and wondered why his gut seemed to twist.

“Yes, sir. We’ve got eighteen Warhawks ready to go. The two we bent in training will soon be ready to fly again, one with those Jap floats”—he shook his head—“which gives us a P-Forty floatplane, of all things. The other thrashed its gear and prop, but we’ve got plenty of propeller blades. The gear was ruined, and instead of replacing it from salvage, we’re reconfiguring it as a fixed-gear, two-seat trainer.” He paused. “It’s probably a miracle, but only three of the twenty-four ships we made airworthy have been totaled. One went down in the jungle north of the city—we still don’t know why. Another ground looped and landed on its back. Mack’s ship was the only one lost in combat—if you count stepping in a bomb crater when he came in for a landing as a combat loss. As you know, all three of those resulted in fatalities.”

Adar nodded solemnly. “I mourn their loss as you do,” he said. “They watch us now from the Heavens they so briefly touched in this life!” He gazed at the awning above for a moment amid the murmured agreement before looking back at Ben. “The new planes are very impressive,” he said, changing the subject. Ben brightened.

“Yes, sir!” He grinned, justifiably proud. “I like ’em! They’re not as versatile as ‘Nancys’—they can’t carry a bomb load to speak of even with the guns removed, and they can’t land on the water—but as dedicated pursuit ships, they’re swell! They’ll be able to take off and land on a carrier or grass strip in a heartbeat. They’re fast and maneuverable, and don’t use much gas. Even with the current Blitzer Bugs, they can cut up a Grik zep and strafe the enemy on the ground. Mr. Sandison’s working on more powerful weapons to hang on ’em and that’ll make ’em even better. They’ll be good recon planes too, when we get some decent, lightweight, pilot-usable transmitters installed.”

“Most impressive,” Alan echoed dryly, “especially when somebody who probably shouldn’t be risking his neck in such a way puts them through their paces.”

Ben stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean? The Mosquito Hawks are as safe as we can make ’em. The air-cooled radial has almost nothing to go wrong with it, and pound for pound they’re even stronger than ‘Nancys.’ Don’t forget, I practically learned to fly in
our
Peashooters.” He glanced around. “Uh, very similar planes from our world,” he explained. “Anyway, I’m a lot more familiar with the design, and we’ve been testing ’em east of Baalkpan for the last two weeks.” He looked back at Letts. “Besides,
nobody
flies anything
I’m
afraid to fly, so yeah, I’ve pushed ’em around a little!” He shrugged. “But not today. For your information, this morning’s demonstration was performed by Lieutenant Conrad Diebel, formerly of the Dutch Air Corps, not me.” He nodded at the blond man seated nearby. “I was sedately coasting around in one of the P-Forties!”

“Braa-vo, Lieutenant Diebel!” Adar said. “A most exciting display! I presume you are settling in well . . . after all?”

Diebel, wearing an aging but still yellow-violet shiner, stood. “Yes, Mr. Chairman,” he said with somewhat rueful irony and a glance at the NCO in coveralls. “I have been . . . disabused of any misconceptions I may have harbored regarding the situation here. I am happy to serve.”

“Excellent,” Adar said happily. He looked back at Ben. “How many Mosquito Hawks are complete and how soon can we deploy them?”

“We’ve got six total, and four combat ready. The guys stood two of ’em on their nose, but nobody was hurt. They’re really light and landing will take some getting used to, especially since most of the new pilots are out of ‘Nancys.’ All they’ve ever landed on is water. Based on performance, I took the liberty of pulling the trigger on production, so they should roll out pretty fast. We really need rubber, though, for tires. We get that”—he paused, considering—“we can have ten a week in two weeks, and twenty a week in a month.”

“That’s much faster than ‘Naan-cee’ production,” Adar observed. “You do not mean to cut back on that, do you? As you say, ‘Naan-cees’ are versatile and popular with the Allied Homes—and we have promised many to the Imperials.”

“We don’t have to cut anything, sir, though I think we should concentrate more on the big ‘Clippers’ here in Baalkpan. With the Maa-ni-los making them too, we can’t
crew
‘Nancys’ as fast as we make them. ‘Clippers’ aren’t B-Seventeens, but they’re the closest thing to a long-range, heavy bomber we’ve got. Besides, we need them as transports, to move people around. As for the Mosquito Hawks, now that we’ve done the heavy lifting development-wise, they’re less complicated in many ways than the others and require less than half the materials.”

“Indeed?” Adar said, but his grin faded. “Mr. Letts, perhaps it is time to reveal the not-so-good subjects we must discuss, so we may determine what to do about them. Colonel Maallory’s rubber is just one of many things at stake.”

“Yes, sir,” Alan agreed. He looked around the gathering, trying to meet as many eyes as he could, just as he’d seen Captain Reddy do so many times. “We’ve taken some hits,” he admitted at last, “and, as usual, it seems like everything has hit the fan at once. I know it’s impossible, but it’s enough to make you wonder if all our enemies somehow coordinated it. You all know about
Mizuki Maru
by now, and the threat
Hidoiame
represents? Well, the Skipper and
Walker
will try to deal with her on their way back here.” He grimaced. “I wish the Skipper was already here and the hell with the Jap, but right now
Hidoiame
’s like a fox in the henhouse—ah, like a skuggik in the akka aviary. She’s got to be stopped.” He took a breath. “What you don’t know, because we’ve kept a lid on it until now, is that not only has the First Fleet Expeditionary force slammed into a brick wall in India, but we’ve got reason to believe things are about to get a lot worse in the west. The Grik are on the move on land and sea. They’ve finally brought their new fleet up, and Keje says it’s a doozy. We have to move everything we can up to Andaman—planes, ships, ordnance, supplies, the works—and we’ve got to make it snappy. No holding back.”

He looked at Adar. “What makes this a little awkward at this particular time are two other things that just came in. The elements of Second Fleet have rendezvoused, and Commodore Jenks has assumed overall command in the east, but reconnaissance confirms that the Doms have occupied at least a part of the Enchanted Isles. It looks like some of the Brit garrison is still holding out, but its relief has taken on even greater urgency, and the situation has become considerably more complicated and potentially more costly. Add to that, we just learned that an attempt has been made on the lives of the New Britain Imperial family, as part of an apparent coup.”

Nearly everyone cried out and stood at that announcement. Despite an almost universal attachment to Princess “Becky,” all knew how disastrous it could be if the Empire suddenly dropped out of the war. Not because it had large forces in the west yet, but because nearly a third of the Allied fleet and personnel relied on the Empire for logistical support and transport of supplies. Besides, though perhaps not an immediate threat to the western allies, the Doms were a terrible enemy.

Alan held up his hands. “The princess is safe!” he assured everyone, “and in the care of loyal forces, including our own. Mr. Bradford is also safe and, as you know, has considerable influence with her. He should be able to help her cope with the current emergency. Unfortunately, we don’t know yet if her mother and Governor-Emperor McDonald survived the attempt. They were attending a session of the Court of Directors when some kind of big-assed bomb went off. The wireless station on New Britain went down at about the same time and most communications are currently via a very confused and busy station on New Scotland. Some traffic is getting through to our ships there, repeated by the new Midway station.”

The great Lemurian Home
Salaama-Na
, commanded by “reserve” Admiral and High Chief Sor-Lomaak, had been tasked to establish a wireless and fueling station on “Wake” Island, but when it was found to be even smaller than its “other world” counterpart and entirely without water, Sor-Lomaak proceeded to discover that Midway was bigger than expected and did have water, which was necessary for the establishment of any long-term, secluded outpost.

“Nobody, even Mr. Bradford, knows exactly what’s going on,” Letts continued. “Needless to say, rescue efforts are underway, but few survivors have been discovered so far.”

It took a moment for the shouted questions and roars of outrage to subside, but eventually, Alan continued. “Clearly, we must lend whatever support we can to the princess and we will, but with the situation in the west heating up, our resources are limited. In response to these various emergencies, Chairman Adar and I have asked Commander Herring to assess the situation in his capacity as the new Chief of Strategic Intelligence.” He gestured at a thin man still seated to his left. “Commander Herring, if you please?”

Herring stood. He was tall and still gaunt, but his expression was determined. “Most of you don’t know me yet,” he began. “But after acquainting myself with the situation here and abroad as best I can, I have wholeheartedly embraced the Alliance and its cause. I am honored by the trust that has been invested in me, and I plan to do everything in my power to perform the duties asked of me. In my capacity as CSI, I have proposed a list of things I believe we must and can do immediately, along with other actions I consider crucial to prepare and that, I frankly believe, have been neglected.” He paused, frowning in the surprised silence.

“Let me say now that you have all accomplished amazing things before I ever arrived. I recognize and stipulate that, so please don’t take anything I say as criticism. The actions I must propose to counter not only the immediate crisis, but also to lay the groundwork for long-term operations are the result of independent and, hopefully, objective study. No one here has ever been trained for strategic thinking, and you have done well within the limits imposed on you. But I believe some rather fundamental changes must be made regarding the future prosecution of the war.”