Iron Gray Sea: Destroyermen (41 page)

We’ll have to keep our distance,
Matt thought as he and Sandra descended the companionway and went forward to the wardroom.

“Boats!” he exclaimed when he saw Chief Gray sitting on a chair beside a clearly miserable Diania. He’d wondered where the Super Bosun was. Gray looked up, probably horrified he’d been caught like this. One hand was holding a bucket, the other tentatively patting the sick girl’s back. Diania’s face was in the bucket, her trembling hands holding wet, dark hair out of the way.

“Oh, you poor dear!” Sandra exclaimed, rushing forward. She looked at her pharmacist’s mates. “I thought she was doing better!”

“She was,” one said, but then gestured around. Diania wasn’t the only human female puking in the wardroom. “I guess it come and go,” the ’Cat said with a slightly superior air. Sandra was annoyed. All the ’Cats had been just as sick the first time they rode
Walker
in a storm. She knelt in front of Diania.

“Are you all right?”
What a stupid question
.

“Aye’m,” came a muffled croak from within the bucket. “I’ll be back tae me duties soon enu . . .” The bucket thundered.

“Boats,” Matt said softly, “you’re damage-control officer. You need to be . . . You’ve got other duties.”

“Aye, sir,” Gray grumbled. “An’ I was doin’ ’em too, when I came through here an’ seen this. I ain’t never seen so many broads . . . blowin’ tubes, as it were, all at once. It was . . . terrible! I had to do somethin’ to stop the leaks.”

Sandra snapped her fingers at a PM. “You! Relieve Mr. Gray this instant! He
does
have other duties, and right now, this is yours!”

Gratefully, Gray surrendered the bucket, but paused, electrocuted, when Diania grabbed his hand.

“Thankee,” she mumbled, her red-rimmed eyes peering up at him. “Ye’re not sich a beast as ye make out. I’ll nae fergit!”

Gray retrieved his scalded hand.

“I’ll, uh, get on down to, ah . . . make sure . . .”

Matt shooed him off. When Sandra was sure Diania and the others were receiving proper care, they got the coffee they’d come for and headed aft.

“Chief Gray seems almost
scared
of Diania,” Sandra said as they neared the airlock to the forward fireroom. She’d rarely been in there before.

“Can you blame him?” Matt asked. “He was married once, you know, and it didn’t go well. They had a kid, but he was probably lost on
Oklahoma
, last we heard. At Pearl.” Matt frowned. “All Gray’s ever had out of . . . obligated relationships is pain. He never even shacked up with a Filipino gal. I’m sure he’s visited his share of . . . professional ladies over the years, some just as young as Diania, but that’s not what she is, and he doesn’t know how to handle it. He
won’t
take advantage, but with her stalking him like the hunting dame her name sounds like—” He snorted. “I’d be scared too. He’s old enough to be her grandpa!”

“You really think she’s stalking him?” Sandra asked, amused.

“Don’t you?”

“Maybe. I know she admires him. I also know age shouldn’t matter, not here—certainly not with them. Consider their respective backgrounds; both somewhat monastic, and Diania never expected the opportunity for an ‘obligated’ relationship of any sort, other than practical slavery.” Sandra smiled. “Diania’s an adult, over twenty, I’m sure, even if she doesn’t know exactly. Mr. Gray obviously cares for her. I think they’d be good for each other.”

They cycled through into the forward fireroom and passed between the large bunkers that filled the space where the number one boiler used to be.

“’Ten-shun!!” cried a Lemurian snipe.

Matt quickly called, “As you were!” before he could disrupt anything. “Lieutenant,” he greeted Tabby when she appeared before him.

“Skipper,” she said. “We fixin’ to get them damn Japs?”

“I hope so. Any serious problems?” Matt knew better than to ask if there were any problems at all. There were plenty of nuisance issues he already knew about, and Tabby would dutifully recite each one if she thought that’s what he wanted.

“Nothing new not already in report,” Tabby said. “I’ll keep screws turnin’ as long as you keep holes outta my spaces!”

Matt chuckled. “I’ll do my best.”

“Uh,” Tabby paused. “Spanky have the deck?”

“He does.”

“He on aft deckhouse when we fight? On auxiliary conn?”

“That’s right.”

“You . . . you tell him I ask he be careful?”

“I sure will, Lieutenant,” Matt said. “Carry on.”

“Yes, indeed,” Sandra said cheerfully as they moved aft. “And Mr. Gray is worried about
his
stalker!”

“Damn it,” Matt muttered. “Nothing I can do about it, but this is exactly the sort of thing that proves that women—females of any sort—just don’t belong on warships!”

“Of
course
we don’t,” Sandra soothed with a grin. Matt rolled his eyes.

The sea remained just as vigorous when they came on deck through the forward hatch of the aft deckhouse. Everywhere they’d been, they’d stopped a moment and asked a question or passed an encouraging word. The 25 mm mounts were manned by wet ’Cats and men. The ship always took a lot of water across the deck here. Matt waved at the crews when they stood from behind the shelter of the steel tubs. Jeek and Chief Gunner’s Mate Paul Stites met them at the galley beneath the amidships deckhouse.

“I was looking for you, Chief Jeek,” Matt said, blowing misted seawater off his lips.

“Cap-i-taan?”

“If that is
Hidoiame
up ahead, we’ll likely have to have the ‘Nancy’ over the side.”

Jeek nodded sadly. “We just got her too.”

“I know, and I hate it. But the last thing we need is a burning plane on deck.”

“Ay, ay, sur.”

Matt turned to Stites. “What have you got?”

“Uh, yes, sir. Two things. First, Mr. Campeti has arrested Lanier.”

“
Arrested
? My God, what’s he done now?”

“Well, most of the mess attendants and such are shell handlers and on gun’s crews when we go to battle stations . . .”

“So?”

“Lanier wouldn’t turn half a dozen of ’em loose until they stowed his damn Coke machine. He’s done it before, and the fellas are always late to their stations, but Campeti’s sick of Gunnery always bein’ the last to report—and him and Lanier got into it. Lanier said his machine was more important than any damn gun, and when Campeti said it was a useless piece of . . .” Stites glanced at Sandra. “Anyway, Lanier took a swing.”

“A swing?”

“Yes, sir. I saw it myself. Course, it was kinda slow and Mr. Campeti dodged it fine—but there was a lot of weight behind that punch and Lanier sorta capsized.”

“Was he hurt?”

“No, sir, but he landed on Juan, uh, Mr. Marcos, and snapped off that wood leg of his. That’s why there’s a problem.”

“Okay.”

“Well, the fellas’ll need fed before we go into action”—Matt always insisted on that, and Stites continued—“and since Juan’s in dry dock, he can’t run the galley—”

“So Campeti can’t clap Lanier in irons like he deserves,” Matt finished.

“Yes, sir—I mean, no, sir.”

“I see.”

In an odd way, Matt was actually enjoying this. Once again, he might soon be responsible for all their lives, but this . . . complaint harked back to a simpler time, before the war here, before the Squall, before the war back home. Even before the tardy, frantic, prewar readiness exercises when many of his duties involved just riding herd on a shipload of rambunctious . . . boys. He had to stifle a nostalgic smile. He stepped closer to the galley window where he was sure Earl Lanier had been listening.

“Is this true, Lanier?” he shouted over the sea and the roaring galley furnace inside. Lanier appeared.

“Not completely, sir, though
some
folks might’a seen it that way.”

“Very well. I’ll deal with you at mast. Consider yourself confined to your duty station—the galley—until further notice.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Lanier sulked.

Matt looked back at Stites. “What else?”

“Sir?”

“You said there were
two
things?”

“Oh! Mr. Campeti asks if we want any of the black-powder shells in the ready lockers or the lineup, you know, in case the new ones give us fits.”

“Does he expect any fits?”

“No, sir, he hopes not.”

“Then no. The older shells’ll put us in range of those things.” Matt gestured back at the 25 mm guns. “That’s no good.”

“No, sir.”

“Anything else?”

“No, sir.”

Matt looked at his watch again. He’d been gone a little over twenty minutes. If Spanky had decided the target was an illusion, someone would have found him and told him. If it was doing anything threatening, he’d have been called back to the bridge. All the same, whatever it was, it ought to be in sight by now.

“Carry on, Stites, Jeek. I’ll be on the bridge if any more . . . domestic hostilities erupt. And since we’re liable to be in action before long, the punishment for such acts will increase exponentially. Is that clear?”

CHAPTER
26

////// March 25, 1944

Battle of Madras 1216

A
dmiral Keje-Fris-Ar leaned against the bridgewing rail of his beloved
Salissa
, staring through his Imperial telescope. Commodore Jim Ellis was leading the battle line with his DDs, under full steam and with all sails set. The crisp morning breeze out of the northwest was giving the graceful frigates an extra two or three knots and they seemed to fly across the purple agate sea toward the looming, smoking behemoths on the horizon.

Keje wasn’t happy sending Ellis and his Des-Div 4 against the Grik battleships. He feared even its powerful guns might prove ineffective against the enemy’s sloping iron sides. He’d heard how Marines sometimes used angled shields to turn musket fire, and suspected the Jaap Grik had designed their mighty ships with similar principles in mind. Jim was right, however. They wouldn’t know until they tried. All the bombs they’d used had been mere incendiaries with little explosive force. The thirty-two-pounders mounted on most of Jim’s ships would give the enemy the first real battering they’d taken.
Salissa
and
Arracca
were more heavily armed—
Salissa,
in particular, with her captured Jaap guns—but much as he hated to admit it, Jim was right about something else as well:
Salissa
and
Arracca
were more valuable than every other ship in First Fleet combined, and they shouldn’t be risked unless absolutely necessary, or there was some chance they might inflict more damage than they received. Besides, if Jim failed, only
Salissa
,
Arracca
, and the few DDs Jim had left to screen them would remain to defend all the helpless transports, oilers, tenders, and their priceless crews when they made their break. Reinforcements
were
on the way, but none could possibly arrive in time to make a difference. Ben Mallory’s P-40s were supposed to arrive at Andaman that day, but to be of any use here, they’d have to land and refuel on Saa-lon. Grass strips had been located and laid out, but there were no facilities, fuel, or ordnance in place yet. Keje sank lower against the railing. No, First Fleet would have to fight with what it had.

He glanced down at
Salissa
’s flight deck as the last of her Nancys lofted into the sky. There would be one last airstrike before Ellis made his attack, and the pursuit squadrons still carried incendiaries. There was always the chance they could get them through the antiair cannon ports if the enemy opened them. All the planes still carried hand-dropped mortar bombs, but those relied on fierce but relatively light antipersonnel fragmentation and hadn’t been effective at all against the armored ships. Somebody had come up with the bright idea of having the bomb squadrons’ OCs light fuses on the much heavier naval exploding case shot before dropping it on the enemy. Keje shuddered. The fuses were like little signal rocket motors and would flare fiercely—and possibly disastrously. There was a chance someone might drop one of the improvised bombs down an enemy stack, or a near miss detonating alongside might open seams below the waterline. It wasn’t much to hope for. There were better bombs on the way, but for now, they had to make do.

Keje sighed and nodded at Captain Atlaan-Fas. “Get on the TBS yourself. Send to Commodore Ellis on
Dowden
: Attack the enemy at your discretion, and may the Maker above be with you all.”

USS
Dowden

“What a sight!” cried Lieutenant Niaal-Ras-Kavaat, Jim’s exec, while the 1st and 5th Naval Air Wings swirled around the monstrous Grik battlewagons like a swarm of stingers above a herd of rhino pigs. Incendiary bombs spewed rivulets of flame across the ships and the sea, keeping the antiair cannons from firing, if nothing else, and white puffs, like big cotton balls, blossomed around the ships as case shot exploded. Heavy geysers erupted in the air when the bombs hit the water.

“What a sight,” Jim agreed, watching through his binoculars. A form of hell was being unleashed on the oncoming monsters, but as far as he could tell, the six dreadnaughts—suddenly, he
had
to call them dreadnaughts—just shouldered it all aside and kept on coming. One of the ironclad frigates that remained with the enemy fleet suddenly jetted fire from every port and silently disintegrated under a muddy gray pall. It was long moments before the dull crack of the detonation reached them, but it was drowned by cheering. Jim was tempted to silence the crew. The destruction of the smaller ship meant nothing. Instead, he let them enjoy the moment. He didn’t know what size guns those monsters carried, but they were probably bigger than his—and longer ranged. His crew would get a wake-up soon enough.

He looked aft. Trailing behind
Dowden
were USS
Haakar-Faask
, USS
Naga
, USS
Bowles
, USS
Felts
, USS
Saak-Fas
, USS
Davis
, USS
Ramic-Sa-Ar
, and USS
Clark
. All were newer than
Dowden
and carried thirty-two-pounders to her twenty-fours, but
Dowden
was his ship, and would fire the first shots. Suddenly, Jim chuckled.

“What?” Niaal asked, blinking.

“Oh, nothing,” Jim said, then shrugged. “There’s six of them—eight, counting those frigate things they have left—and nine of us. Hell, this is the first time we’ve ever had ’em outnumbered!”

Niaal chuckled uneasily. “Yeah . . . but maybe we should’ve brought the whole division. I’d feel better if we outnumbered them a little more.”

Jim shook his head, pointing to windward where three more “destroyers” paced them. “They can come up quick enough if it looks like we’re doing any good. No sense wasting good ships and crews if we can’t scratch the bastards!” Niaal nodded, but wasn’t sure he agreed. More ships would disperse the enemy fire between more targets . . . wouldn’t they?

“Besides,” Jim continued, “if they knock us out, I can’t leave Keje naked.
Scott
’s the only new DD he’s got back there.” He forced a grin. “Hoist the battle flag, Mr. Niaal!”

Niaal repeated Jim’s command. Moments later, the oversize Stars and Stripes ran up the halyard and broke to leeward. As the man and ’Cat watched, every trailing ship hoisted its own big flag, and Jim felt a stirring in his chest.

Niaal strode to the cluster of speaking tubes by the helm. Rather ironically, and unlike the Imperials who’d adopted an elevated flying bridge amidships, “American” frigates still retained their primary conning station on the quarterdeck, aft. Maybe it wasn’t as practical, but it was more traditional and the helm was better protected behind the heavy bulwarks on either side. The auxiliary conn was aft as well, but belowdecks and tied into the same speaking tubes. “Range?” Niaal cried into the tube that ultimately snaked up the main mast to the fire-control platform in the maintop.

“Six, fi, double oh,” came the tinny reply.

Dowden
may be older, but like her consorts, and most of the warships in First Fleet, she’d recently been fitted with some relatively simple but fundamental improvements. She had a crude VHF radio telephone, a “TBS” (Talk Between Ships) that, though limited to line of sight, allowed her comm officer to speak directly to his counterparts on other ships. It would come in really handy when they had transmitters small enough for aircraft. More important at the moment, Des-Div 4 also had rudimentary fire control. The guns had to be shifted manually from side to side for windage adjustments, but they could be elevated to fire broadsides—true salvos—at relatively precise ranges determined by the gunnery officer. This was accomplished with new electric primers and a gimbaled switch that would complete the firing circuit when the ship was on an even keel. The new rig wasn’t as good as a gyro, of course, but it was better than nothing. In practice, they could now put nearly every round in a ship-size target at fifteen hundred yards—even with smoothbores.

None of these improvements had made it to Second Fleet yet, due to the distances involved.
There are probably some politics involved as well,
Jim thought grimly. On one level, he understood. The Grik were still perceived as the immediate threat by most, including Adar, and though he supported the Imperial Alliance, he, like most Lemurians, considered the Doms as primarily an Imperial problem. What made that attitude gall Jim was the fact that there were Lemurian—American—ships, crews, and troops in the east, and they shouldn’t be deprived of better equipment simply because some thought their fight was less important. Or maybe in this instance, politics had a place. The Empire was still racked by security issues, and it had been drummed into everyone that, crude as it was, the new fire-control apparatus must never fall into enemy hands. The Japanese would probably come up with something similar for the Grik, if they hadn’t already. (
We’re about to find out,
Jim thought.) But it should remain a major advantage over the Doms for a long time to come—if nobody squealed. Jim shook his head and concentrated on the business at hand.

“Forty-five hundreds,” Niaal repeated the latest estimate.

“Very well. Sound general quarters.”

“Generaal quarters! Generaal quarters!” Niaal shouted at the ’Cat standing beside the alarm bell. “Clear for action!” The heavy bell began to ring and drums thundered in the waist. Jim clasped his hands behind his back and fixed a calm expression on his face. This would be his first real surface action since the Battle of Baalkpan. He hoped it wouldn’t be his last. More important, though, he hoped he wouldn’t screw it up.

The Grik dreadnaughts churned inexorably closer, their massive, sloping sides rearing high out of the sea. Des-Div 4 had the advantage of the wind, speed, and position, angling to cross the enemy’s projected course. Its first salvos should take the lead Grik ship dead on the bow in succession, and Jim wondered why Kurokawa—
It has to be Kurokawa over there,
he thought—would so obligingly let him “cross his T.” Was the maniacal Jap really so supremely confident? Jim felt a chill.

“Three thousands!” Niaal reported. Three huge clouds of smoke blossomed at the forward casemate of the oncoming ship.

“Kind of ambitious,” Jim muttered. A few hundred yards short, widely spaced geysers erupted into the sky. They looked like the splashes of the eight-inch cruiser guns that had dogged
Walker
so long ago.

“Jeez!” Niaal whispered. “Kind of
daamn big
! Those must be hundred-pounders, maybe bigger!”

“They’ll never hit us from this range. Grik gunnery has always been crap,” Jim reassured him. Reassured himself. “Keep track of the time between shots.”

“Maybe they don’t hit us from here, but we gotta get closer,” Niaal reminded. “Quartermaster! You timing the shots?”

“Ay, sir.”

“All ships will concentrate fire on that devil up front,” Jim ordered, even as the enemy line began to assume an echelon formation, the dreadnaughts behind starting to ease to the side and increase speed. Soon all the enemy ships would be approaching parallel to one another. Jim suspected they would make a coordinated turn to starboard, exposing their port broadsides when Des-Div 4 entered what the enemy considered his own best range. Niaal saw it too.

“You sure you want to concentrate on just that one?”

“Yeah. If we can’t hurt one of them with everything we’ve got, there’s no hope against them all, and we might as well break off. Send it.”

“Ay, sur.”

Time passed as the fleets drew nearer one another, and the tension rose proportionately.

“Two t’ousands!” came the shout through the voice tube.

“Stand by! We’ll commence firing at fifteen hundred. The gunnery officer will give the command.”

Three more massive puffs of smoke obscured the target before the wind swept them away.

“Eight minutes, twenty seconds!” cried the quartermaster.

“Very well.”

Two great splashes erupted fairly close astern, and one mighty shot moaned by overhead, snapping a single backstay before it plunged into the sea a hundred yards to port.

“Starboard baat-tery, match elevations for fifteen hundreds!” the gunnery officer commanded.

“Elevations matched!” came the replies of the midshipmen, each in charge of a pair of guns.

“Stand clear!”

“All clear!”

Moments later, with only the brief clanging of a bell in the maintop as warning, all twelve of
Dowden
’s twenty-four-pounders in the starboard broadside vomited smoke and fire with a precision only
Walker
’s guns had ever shown in combat. The smoke drifted downrange, toward the target, but quickly dissipated as Jim watched the impressively tight cluster of roundshot rise and rise, then plummet toward the target.

ArataAmagi