Iron Gray Sea: Destroyermen (32 page)

“Sorta puffed up, ain’t he?” Silva whispered aside to Lawrence.

Herring continued. “In the short term, as Mr. Letts has said, the most pressing emergency is in the west, and all available assets must be sent to salvage that situation. Hopefully, the circumstances in the Empire will stabilize, but there is nothing we can do here to influence that at present, beyond assurances of support. Even Saan-Kakja is too distant to render immediate material aid—if, indeed, it is required. Consequently, Second Fleet must make do with what it currently has, or what is already in the pipeline for the foreseeable future. Likewise, Captain Reddy is essentially out of the picture for now.” He smiled, a little smugly, Silva thought.

“We will, of course, continue to value any . . . suggestions he might make regarding the disposition of our forces, but we are on the spot and must ultimately decide those dispositions for ourselves.”

Letts calmed the angry murmurs that arose over that. Captain Reddy was still Supreme Allied Commander, by acclamation, and Silva wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the new CSI’s tone—and no one had “acclaimed” Herring.

“Hear him out,” Letts said. “He’s right. The Skipper isn’t here, and he
wants
us to think for ourselves!”

Herring nodded at him and continued. “We find ourselves in this current predicament as a result of shortsighted thinking and an acute lack of intelligence regarding not only the strength and disposition of the enemy, nor do we have even the most remote understanding of the situation beyond the world we know. These deficiencies must be remedied. We must push harder to obtain land, aerial, and even seaborne reconnaissance. I know this will be dangerous for those involved for many reasons, but that danger must be balanced against the even greater danger now faced by the Alliance due to less . . . diligent attention to this necessity in the past.” There was more uncomfortable murmuring, but Herring pressed on.

“I understand an expedition to meet and treat with . . . certain natives on this island has been planned, and I agree it must go forward without delay. Not only will we learn more about what is out there than has ever been known, but we might even secure more valuable allies with a unique grasp of Grik psychology, not to mention field craft!

“In addition, I recommend that another major expedition be commissioned to explore the world
beyond
the Grik and attempt to measure not only the true extent of their influence, but also discover what possible threats lie past their domain. For this I propose the use of the frigate
Donaghey
, now refitting at Andaman. Her captain, Commander Garrett, has demonstrated uncommon courage and adaptability and the ship itself, as with all dedicated sailing vessels, is not nearly as dependent upon supply—and honestly, offers limited further utility in the combat operations either planned or underway. Commander Garret should take her, and perhaps at least one of the razeed Grik corvettes, or DEs, as her consort and supply ship.”

“You’re saying Garrett and his crew are expendable?” Ben demanded sharply.

“I’m saying all of us are, in the grand scheme of things. With that in mind, however, and in light of the recent dreadful losses of men possessing . . . special knowledge, I think it’s time that such men, and even Lemurians they have trained, be interviewed extensively and as much of their knowledge be collected and recorded as possible before it is lost forever.” He looked at Adar. “I know a major effort has long been implemented to copy and distribute the many technical manuals and indeed every book that has survived. But we must go beyond that to capture the
experience
of men who know how to do the things described in the texts.”

“Okay,” Ben said, still standing, “maybe that even makes some sense. Why don’t we encourage everybody to write journals or something?” He paused. “But what do you want to do right now?”

“We must immediately reinforce First Fleet with all air and sea assets at our disposal. As I hear so often, we know nothing of the fleet the Grik and their Japanese allies have constructed. The Alliance has made great strides since last the two forces met. We must presume the enemy has done the same.” He looked at Alan. “I suggest considerable thought be given toward how to counter naval forces even more powerful than our own.”

“As you may have noticed today, we’ve
already
given that a lot of thought,” Letts said a little stiffly. “And Lieutenant Monk says
Santa Catalina
is about ready for sea.” Alan personally believed the newly “protected cruiser” could stand up to anything the Grik could dish out. Besides, Herring’s manner was finally starting to rub him a little raw as well.

“Of course.”

“So,” Ben asked, “by ‘all assets,’ do you mean all my modern birds too?”

“That is what I recommend. You demonstrated today that the new domestically produced aircraft should soon be sufficient to defend the city from any further air raids. I consider those unlikely at present, based on . . . what little real intelligence we have received from the west. In addition, Mr. Letts assures me that small cargos of rubber are on their way as we speak. They should be sufficient to finish a large number of . . . Mosquito Hawks.”

Ben looked at Alan and Adar. “If all my P-Forties are going, I’m going too,” he stated forcefully.

Alan shrugged, expression troubled. “I’ll update the movement order and start the wheels rolling to increase the planned support.”

Silva eased over and whispered in Bernie’s ear. “Sounds like the whole damn war’s headin’ west for now. Any chance I can slip outta my little campin’ trip?”

Bernie shook his head. “If I have to stay here, you still have to follow your orders too. The
Skipper’s
orders.”

“Okay,” Dennis agreed, nodding at Herring. “But you keep an eye on that guy. Mr. Letts stood up to him, but I think he’s a little brass-blind, if you know what I mean. I ain’t famous for my noodle, but I’ve seen a ambitious politician or two on the stump and in the Navy both.”

CHAPTER
18

////// Eastern reaches of the Fil-pin Sea

Three days out of Respite

March 16, 1944

T
he honeymoon was over—in every respect. USS
Walker
, DD-163, was steaming at twenty-five knots on all three remaining boilers beneath puffy clouds and a dazzling sun. The sea was mild and there would be little breeze if not for the ship’s speed, which kept the temperature bearable, at least above deck. Tabby had reported that it was nearing 130 degrees in the firerooms, and Matt had no idea how the furry cats could stand it. They took frequent breaks, drank a lot of water, and shed a lot, of course. Spanky’s allergies wouldn’t even allow him to go down there right now.

Matt sat in his chair, trying not to brood. His time with Sandra had been amazing, and his heart still quickened at the thought of her. He hadn’t believed it was possible to feel such joy, even now while he tried to hide it, and his memories of the time they’d had were still glowing fresh. But then upon returning to the ship, he’d finally been briefed on all he’d missed. The crew, his officers,
his friends
had all conspired to keep him ignorant of the various developments; the battles in India, the situation in the east, even the attacks on Princess Rebecca and her family. It was still unknown if Rebecca was an orphan or not. A few survivors had been found in the rubble of the directors’ building, but hope was beginning to wane. And all that time, while all those momentous events were unfolding, he’d remained blissfully unaware.

He’d actually ranted when he heard. He felt guilty that he’d been so happy while everything everywhere seemed to be falling apart, and he took it out on Spanky and the Bosun more than anyone. They’d been most responsible for keeping him informed, and they’d consciously decided not to. He trusted the people on the scene, but he was profoundly frustrated that he and his ship were so remote from everything that had occurred, thousands of miles from anywhere they could have been of assistance to anyone. That was bad enough. But by keeping him incommunicado, he hadn’t been involved at all! Spanky had assured him that if anything had come up that really needed his input or permission, he would have been told, but that didn’t make him feel any better—or better inclined toward the conspirators.

Spanky had been somewhat contrite but defiant that he’d done the right thing. Matt had needed a real “liberty” more than anyone on the ship, he’d argued, particularly under the circumstances. And what could he, or any of them, have really done?
Walker
couldn’t go anywhere until her stopgap repairs were complete. She damn sure couldn’t tangle with
Hidoiame
until then! She needed the rest at least as much as her skipper. Even now, neither, in his view, was in top shape.
Walker
still needed a real yard and a dry dock. The snipes were back to using “baling wire and gum” to keep her at twenty-five knots!

Chief Gray had listened to the harangue in silence, then finally shrugged.

“So, bust me back to third class,” he’d growled defiantly. “Wouldn’t be the first time, and maybe I’d have more to do. Boats Bashear’s shaping into a good chief bosun, and mostly I just twiddle my thumbs.”

Matt rounded on him then and promptly made him the assistant damage control officer. Damage control was the first officer’s job, but in addition to his other duties, Norm was so busy teaching navigation to the ’Cat QMs (and anyone else who cared to sit in on the arguably heretical—to some—sessions), that he’d been stretched by teaching and running the essential damage-control drills. If anybody knew every aspect of damage control, Chief Gray did.

Matt felt a little better now, sitting in his chair and sipping Juan’s monkey joe, but he couldn’t help brooding over the fact that he—and
Walker
—were vast, unsympathetic
oceans
away from anywhere he
wished
they were. The one consolation was that
Walker
was finally racing inexorably closer to one place she
needed
to be, however. Nancys from PatWing 7, newly stationed at Yokohama, had confirmed both
Hidoiame
and her tanker were on the move at last, apparently searching for a new nest, as they’d predicted. They’d been seen by the light of last night’s moon and their wildly phosphorescent wakes, steaming at about eight knots south-southwest toward the Korea Strait. Phosphorescent wakes, caused by blooming plankton and other tiny creatures, were not new to Matt’s human destroyermen, even if the brilliantly vivid and varying colors on this world were. Lemurians were familiar with the occasional and somewhat regional phenomenon as well, but they’d only recently seen the intensity evoked by the higher speeds and churning screws of modern ships, particularly from the air. The wakes made the enemy easy to spot, and the diminishing, miles-long trails led almost magically to the ships that left them. Such a small, unexpected bonus now gave Matt a huge advantage over
Hidoiame
, at least at night, and he hoped the enemy hadn’t recognized it.

He suspected that the murderers would avoid the Fil-pin Lands, knowing by now they had enemies there. That left a possible run across the Yellow Sea, maybe to Tsingtao or somewhere in that vicinity, but Matt doubted it. A run down the coast of China would put them briefly closer to the Fil-pin Lands, but ultimately beyond what they must think was the center of activity for these new enemies of theirs. They couldn’t have any idea of the true scope of the Alliance . . . could they?

Hidoiame
’s tanker was the key. If she limited the Japanese destroyer to eight knots, Matt could drive
Walker
at her best possible, groaning speed, and refuel at Chinakru’s Samaar, where he also expected Saan-Kakja to have another Nancy available for him. With his own scout plane, and those provided by the patrol wings on Formosa and in the Fil-pin-Lands, he hoped to catch
Hidoiame
in the vicinity of the Formosa Strait.

“Permission to come on the bridge?” came a very welcome voice behind him. Sandra had never asked permission before, but things were . . . different now.

“Um, sure,” said Chief Quartermaster Patrick “Paddy” Rosen, with a quick glance at Captain Reddy. He had the deck and the conn. “I mean, permission granted.” The redheaded kid had been S-19’s quartermaster and had assumed the chief’s spot on
Walker
when Norm became first lieutenant. He was a good navigator, and nearly as good a teacher as Norm.

Matt turned and smiled. Sandra couldn’t help but brighten his mood. He raised an eyebrow when he saw Diania had followed her on the bridge and was walking as carefully and fearfully as if there were molten lava between the wooden strakes beneath her feet. The girl was listed as a carpenter’s mate, but she was still more Sandra’s stewardess than anything. She was learning to fight too. Chack had taught her a lot before he left the ship, and Stites and, increasingly, Gray were teaching her how to shoot. To Matt’s amazement, Gray had already suggested that Diania be included in the Captain’s Guard, so she could learn the ropes and be prepared to serve in an equivalent capacity for “Mrs. Minister” Sandra Reddy, or “Lady Sandra,” as the Imperials called her. Even among Matt’s human destroyermen, that title seemed to be gaining steam. He shook his head.

“Sandra,” he said. “Miss Diania. Welcome to the bridge. Sandra, you’ll retain all the privileges you enjoyed . . . previously,” he assured her, “and are always welcome on the bridge except when you’re at your battle station. Miss Diania, you may accompany her. You”—he sighed—“may eventually even find yourself on the bridge-watch bill. In the meantime, you’re welcome to look around, but please don’t touch anything or distract anyone.” Matt knew the last warning would be tough for her to avoid. She was a beauty, and Paddy couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off her.

“What have you got there, Captain?” Sandra asked, gesturing at the clipboard in his hand.

“Well, the watch bill, for one thing.” He flipped the page. “This is another message from Baalkpan, via Maa-ni-la.” He scanned down it. “There’s some good news on top of the bad. Adar’s Torpedo Day bash went off pretty well. Ben didn’t crash any of his new pursuit planes into anything, and most of the small arms seemed to work okay. The torpedoes still need work, but they
did
work. Sort of.” He grinned. “On that note,
Mahan
still has two salvageable torpedo mounts, and she may even get four eventually. Lots of work still to do on her.” He raised his eyebrows and blinked. “I still can’t believe they raised the old girl, and we might get her back. She won’t look the same, they say, but that doesn’t matter as long as she’s back in the war!” He chuckled. “Speaking of not looking the same, Irvin’s finally settled on what to do with S-Nineteen. He means to keep her gun and bow tubes but gut everything else that makes her a sub. The conversion will take a while, but the increase in buoyancy and freeboard, as well as the extreme decrease in weight, should make her a lot quicker on her feet. No telling how she’ll handle—she’s liable to roll her guts out—but she ought to be at least as good a torpedo boat as anything we had in the Great War, with a lot longer legs.”

“It sounds like
Mahan
and S-Nineteen are counting an awful lot on Bernie’s torpedoes,” Sandra observed.

“Yeah, but Bernie’ll come through,” Matt agreed with certainty. Then he frowned. “I’m still not sure what to think of this Herring guy. I agreed with Alan and Adar that it was high time we had some snoops, and we need somebody who knows how to gather and compile intelligence on our enemies.” He shrugged. “Lord knows we haven’t done a good job at that. We probably already have a lot more information than we know what to do with, or how to apply. We need somebody to analyze it all.” He grunted. “He’s even already come up with some pretty good ideas. Sending Greg Garrett off exploring in
Donaghey
is brilliant, and I should have thought of that. Apparently even the Grik are starting to go to steam—I don’t like the sound of those big ships of theirs!—and
Donaghey
’s days in a battle line are probably done. On the other hand, even though Greg’s the perfect choice to lead the expedition, he’s too damn good to lose! That kid ought to be an admiral!”

“I know you’re close to Greg,” Sandra began.

“I’m close to
all
my people,” Matt said sternly.

“Of course. But you
are
a little closer to him.”

Matt sighed. “Maybe so. He reminds me a little of myself at his age, I guess—not that I’d accomplished nearly as much as he has by then! I just . . . It’s an awful big world out there, and we still don’t know what might be over the very next hill!”

Sandra looked at him. “Tell me the truth. If you were in his position and got an assignment like his, how would you feel?”

“Ha! Thrilled, I guess.”

“There you are. Now, what else about this Commander Herring bothers you?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t met him, and that’s part of it, I guess. Also, if you read Alan between the lines, I get the feeling he thinks Herring already has too much influence with Adar. Even that wouldn’t bother me too much if Saan-Kakja hadn’t tacked on that she doesn’t trust the ‘arrogant and rude’ Mr. Herring when they retransmitted from Maa-ni-la.”

Sandra chuckled. “For us
and
Adar to receive! I do dearly love Saan-Kakja, though you may have created a monster when you helped break her out of her shell!”

“She and Princess Rebecca are two of a kind, only one doesn’t have a tail!” Matt agreed. “About the same age, fearless, honest, and very quick to anger . . .” He paused. “God, I hope Governor-Emperor McDonald and his wife, Ruth, are all right! I think Courtney, Sean, and our forces in the New Britain Isles will help keep things together if . . . they’re not. But if Princess Rebecca winds up on top, a lot of heads will roll, and she may not be too particular whose they are!”

“Courtney won’t let
her
become a monster,” Sandra said with conviction. “And don’t forget: something else Saan-Kakja and Princess Rebecca have in common is their devotion to
you
.”

Matt shifted uncomfortably. “Well, the point is,” he said, skipping Sandra’s observation, “that Saan-Kakja thinks Herring’s a jerk. Alan doesn’t come right out and say it, but he does too.” He rubbed his nose, broken in the Battle of Baalkpan. “You know, we’ve always gotten along with the ’Cats, right from the start. Sure, we had differences—still do—but nothing we weren’t both willing to try to overcome. We’re more like them now, and they’re more like us—but we had a lot in common to start with . . . and it makes me wonder.”

“What?”

“Well, we both saw it before the war back home. There were a lot of different navies within the United States Navy that didn’t even think the same way. The rivalry, the different
cultures
, of the deck apes and snipes are just the tiniest example. Destroyermen might almost be a different species from submariners, and the battleship boys are something else.” He rolled his eyes. “Then you’ve got the tenders and oilers! It . . . was like different tribes! To make it even more confusing, crews attached to the different fleets for a while were different too. I had to make some big adjustments when I came from the Pacific Fleet to the Asiatic Fleet, and it took me a while. The Pacific Fleet was always more spit and polish, with newer ships and better gear.” He shrugged. “Maybe it was even more professional in some ways, but the guys in the Asiatic Fleet did what they could with what they had, and the Philippines felt more like home than home did, to some. They were more laid-back, more tolerant, I guess, and more used to people who didn’t look and act like ‘us.’ I’ve always believed that’s why we hit it off so well with the ’Cats, and I’m not so sure a ship from the Pacific Fleet, even another destroyer, would’ve had it so easy”—he snorted—“in that respect, at least.”