Iron Gray Sea: Destroyermen (43 page)

“She still looks as invincible as ever!” commented Niaal’s lieutenant.

“Maybe,” Jim replied. “But all those dents are going to start raising hell inside her.”

“Commodore!” Niaal cried. “We’re taking water forward. The balls punched straight through both sides of the ship, and one came out at the port waterline! Damage control is trying to plug the hole, but it is very large.”

“Worst case?”

“It won’t sink us. If it comes to that, we can seal the compartment and the pumps will handle the seepage. But it will slow us down.”

“What of the other ships?”

“
Naga
and
Bowles
report damage.
Naga
’s is much like ours, but
Bowles
lost her mizzenmast and her engine. I recommend you order her to retire under sail.”

“No,” Jim said firmly. “She stays in the fight until she falls too far behind.
Then
she can retire!”

“Stand clear!”

“All clear!”

Dowden
spat iron once more, and Jim followed the
shoosh!
of the shot.
Haakar-Faask
fired, and her smoke passed in front of him, so he couldn’t see their own broadside strike, but did see
Haakar-Faask
’s hit. Was it his imagination, or did he see plates spin away from the enemy and fall into the sea? Something flashed bright at the periphery of his view, and he redirected his glasses toward the rear of the enemy line. The rearmost Grik dreadnaught had just . . . blown up! There was no way to know what caused it; only
Clark
had been targeting it. Maybe it was a super lucky shot—or even an accident on the Grik’s gun deck? Whatever the cause, he would take it, and the crew of
Dowden
cheered and pranced exuberantly as tons of debris splashed into the sea.

“Commodore!” Niaal pointed aft.
Haakar-Faask
was heeling hard over on her port beam, making a radical starboard turn. Debris was still flying from a massive wound at her stern. Perhaps worse, USS
Davis
, just aft of
Haakar-Faask
, looked like she’d just been the target of a gigantic shotgun blast. Her masts and cordage practically sprayed away from her amid a cloud of bright splinters, and steam gushed from her innards. By the extent of the damage and volume of splashes, two Grik dreadnaughts must have targeted her at once, some of the shot pattern catching
Haakar-Faask
too.

“Jesus!” Jim muttered. “She’s done for! What’s
Haakar-Faask
’s status?”

“She just report!” Niaal said. Like many ’Cats, his normally good English slipped under stress. “She lose helm control, but still have auxiliary conn. She back in line soon!”

“Stand clear!”

“All clear!”

BaBOOM!
SHHHHHH!

Dowden
heaved, and Jim felt like somebody hit him in the face with a baseball bat. It didn’t hurt, not really, but his thoughts were scattered.
They always say you see stars,
he thought,
but
purple
stars
? ’Cats scurried around him and he heard shouts and screams, but for a while—maybe a long while—he didn’t feel like he was really
there
. “Hey!” he finally said, realizing Niaal was holding him up—
For how long?
The deck around was scattered with shredded corpses and great, jagged splinters. Jim looked down to see a huge gap that had opened not far away, as if an enemy shot had torn his ship from beam to beam. “What the hell?” he murmured, noticing his mouth wasn’t moving exactly right. Hot blood started getting in his suddenly watery eyes.

“We hit bad,” Niaal said, blinking concern.

“How bad?”

“I still waiting on report from the carpenter, but we take maybe six hits that time. Prob’ly bad enough!”

Wet, grimy, coughing ’Cats scampered up on deck from below, followed by a gush of gray-black smoke and the first tongues of flame. Jim Ellis quickly came to his senses and realized Niaal might not have all of his. He grabbed the ’Cat and shook him.

“Get all the ready charges over the side right damn now!” he said. He felt like he was mumbling, and his words sounded weird. “Flood the magazine!”

“Maag-a-zine already flood!” shouted the blood-streaked gunnery officer. “Shot punch right through. Another knock hole in fuel bunker. We sink or burn, but not blow up!”

“I already order ready charges over,” Niaal assured him. “Boilers are secure, an’ we venting steam.”

“But . . . if we can’t move, we’ll be sitting ducks!” Jim managed. He looked at the gunnery officer. “And why aren’t you at your post?”

The ’Cat shrugged and pointed up and forward. The mainmast was gone. All that stood amidships was the shot-perforated, steam-gushing stack.

“My post
gone,
Commodore. I fall out, land on longboat cover in the waist! Lucky!”

“But . . . well, we
are
sittin’ ducks,” Jim said. Longer tongues of flame flailed from below, while ’Cats shoveled sand down the companionway from barrels that stood nearby. The ship was nearly dead in the water, her flooding carcass moving only slightly under the foremast sails.

“You gotta sit, Commodore,” Niaal said. “You bleeding—an’ I think you jaw is broke.” The Lemurian was easing Jim aft, toward the skylight above the great cabin/wardroom. He cried for the surgeon—
Again,
Jim thought. The carpenter appeared, also soaked and grimy. Jim saw him, but darkness was creeping in around his field of view. He felt the hard, raised sill around the skylight under his butt and heard an excited, grim exchange, but the words didn’t make any sense.

“
Haakar-Faask
is coming alongside to take us off, Commodore,” Niaal said, breaking through the gathering haze with a gentle shake. “We’re going to lose the ship, sir. Nothing we can do.
Clark
and
Felts
are taking the survivors off
Davis
now. She’s goin’ down fast.”

“Dammit!” Jim managed to shout. “Then they’ll be sitting ducks too!”

The gunnery officer looked at Niaal. The commodore
had
missed a lot.

“Sure, but . . .” Niaal nodded northwest. Jim slowly followed his gaze. The Grik line, the five dreadnaughts and two armored frigates that remained, were already past Jim’s shattered, almost-stationary division, steaming west-northwest. “Ahd-mi-raal Keje’s bringin’ up
Big Sal
, Commodore, an’ them Griks think they got a
bigger
duck just sittin’. She gonna sit on their damn heads, I figger.” He looked at Jim with a new flurry of concerned blinks. “Sur, we got the fire under control—most of the bunkers underwater now—but
Dowden
’s gonna sink. Surgeon’s dead, an’ we gotta get you over to
Haakar-Faask
! Sur? Commodore!”

CHAPTER
27

////// USS
Walker

South China Sea

1240

T
here was no question about it; that was
Hidoiame
and her tanker up ahead—unless there was more than one Kagero-class destroyer and accompanying oiler loose in these seas.
I don’t even want to think about that,
Matt told himself. Both ships were clearly visible to the crow’s-nest lookout when
Walker
climbed atop the taller swells. All the lookouts had been studying the silhouette drawings they’d been given, and the keen-eyed watcher in the uncomfortable steel bucket high on the foremast was positive.

“I guess she hasn’t got radar after all,” Matt mumbled. “That, or maybe Okada knocked it out.” He’d been worried about radar. No Japanese ships had it when they’d met before, but it existed. The cruiser USS
Boise
had it—and took it with her when she was damaged and ordered out of the area, leaving no other radar in the entire Asiatic Fleet either. Aircraft had been the only way to spot distant targets—and only the Japanese had aircraft by then. Here, these Japanese had no aircraft, but those at Matt’s disposal couldn’t fly in this weather. Time had passed “back home,” however, and who knew what kind of ugly surprises
Hidoiame
concealed?

“What makes you so sure, Skipper?”

“No reaction yet. With radar, they might’ve just avoided us.”

“I don’t think so, Skipper,” Gray said. “Radar can’t be much good in this sea, and now we’ve spotted ’em, that tanker damn sure can’t avoid us.”

Matt nodded. “I guess you’re right. Then the question now is, Do they see
us
yet, radar or not, and if they do, are they just trying to sucker us in?”

It was raining again, and the pilothouse windows were practically opaque. Matt walked out on the bridgewing and looked through his binoculars until the spray clouded them as well. He caught only glimpses of the enemy and quickly stepped back under cover. A damp towel was draped over the back of his chair, and he used it again to wipe the binoculars and dry his face. His hat and clothes were soaked.
At least I can get out of it,
he thought.
The guys on deck at their battle stations or on the fire-control platform are probably miserable
.

“Their lookouts’ll
have
to see us soon.”

“Range, fifteen-t’ousands!” Minnie cried. “They
do
see us! Lookout says the Jaap tin caan is turning this way!”

Matt gestured for her to hand him the microphone headset. “Mr. Campeti, this is the captain speaking.”

“This is Campeti.”

Normally, Matt might have just stood on the bridgewing and shouted his question up at the man, but with the rain and wind . . .

“Those Jap five-incher’s have about the same range our new ammo’s supposed to have, right?”

“Yes, sir, but they got advantages and disadvantages.”

“Advantages?”

“They throw a heavier shell, high explosive—and their gun’s crews’ll stay dry in those enclosed mounts.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, chances are, they’ve got better fire control. Otherwise, we’ve got the edge in rate of fire and maybe fire correction.”

“Why?”

“Those five-incher’s are
bag
guns. They gotta ram the projectile, then the powder bag, and they have to change elevation to do it. They’re fast, don’t get me wrong—we’ve
seen
’em—but we should get off four or five more rounds per minute than they can—until the ready lockers run dry. It’ll even up when we have to start passing ammo from below by hand.”

Matt considered. “Okay, Sonny. How close do you want ’em?”

“We
should
be in range now, but with this sea . . . I’d feel more confident at ten thousand, and that would still keep us out of range of their twenty-fives. Course, we’re already technically in range of their five-inchers.”

Matt nodded, though Campeti couldn’t see it. He had a hunch that the Japanese captain would be frugal with his ammunition. According to Okada’s cook,
Hidoiame
had seen action before she crossed over, and then she’d used ammunition on
Mizuki Maru
and the other ships she’d murdered. Her bunkers might be full for now, with that tanker she had along, but her magazines could be seriously depleted.
Walker
could always get more ammunition.

“Range is fourteen thousand and closing, Skipper. Target has increased speed.” Campeti shouted.

“What’s the range to the tanker?” Matt asked.

“Ah, about fourteen. I think she’s turning away.”

“Can you hit her?”

There was a brief pause. “I . . . think so. She’s bigger than the tin can—not a
lot
bigger. She ain’t no fleet oiler, but she’s slow.”

“Very well. Target the tanker with every gun that will bear!”

“Aye, aye, Skipper—but what about the can? She’s really pourin’ on the coal now!”

“The tanker, Sonny!”

“Aye, Captain.”

Matt handed the headset back to Minnie.

“Why the tanker, Skipper?” Spanky asked. “We get the can, we’ll have the tanker on a plate.”

“Something I guess I have to try,” Matt said. “There’ll be a smaller crew on the tanker, and maybe not all those men are murderers.” He shrugged. “Let’s just say I owe General Shinya one.”

“One what?”

“A chance we never really gave the ordinary seamen on
Amagi
, Spanky: a chance to do the right thing.” An ironic smile appeared on his face. “Those’re Japs over there, Mr. McFarlane, but you do realize that’s not why we’ve been chasing them, don’t you? That’s all over—or it should be for us. We’re here because they’re murderers with a very deadly weapon and they have to be stopped. I’m going to give them an option, a single chance; then I mean to start taking all the options they
think
they have away!” He smiled fondly at his friend. “Now take your station aft, at the auxiliary conn. I have the deck and the conn.”

“Aye, aye, sir. I stand relieved. The captain has the deck and the conn!” Spanky announced, and with a quick, curious nod at Matt, he bolted aft, down the ladder.

Matt went to the heavy Bakelite telephone mounted on the aft bulkhead that connected the bridge to the comm shack. “Mr. Palmer, this is the captain speaking. I want you to send a voice-radio message. Start with the frequency Okada used to contact the Japanese ships. Message contents: This is the cruiser USS
Walker
.” (Matt knew the Japanese had often mistaken the very similar silhouettes of four-stack destroyers with the bigger four-stack light cruisers like the old
Marblehead
. Maybe that would help.) “Our old war does not exist here, and this ship is no longer at war with the Empire of Japan. Yours is a criminal ship, however, with criminal officers who murdered helpless prisoners of war and civilian . . . natives. That’s not
war
on any world. You have become pirates, and your leaders must be held accountable for their crimes. Surrender your ships now and you’ll get a fair trial. Those of you innocent of the crimes I described will be honorably treated and allowed to emigrate to a land governed by honorable Japanese! Refuse, and you’ll be destroyed. This offer will not be repeated, nor are the terms negotiable. You have one minute to reply.”

The seconds ticked by, the only sounds from the straining ship and the sea.

“Lookout reports Jaap destroyer open fire!” Minnie cried.

“That’s the option I kind of figured they’d take,” Matt said resignedly. “Time to show them they don’t have any.”

“Twin waterspouts, four hundred tai— yards off port bow!” Minnie reported. They were invisible from the pilothouse.

Matt looked at Sandra. She’d eased away from him, toward the chart table, as if trying to remain unnoticed. “Your station is in the wardroom, I believe,” he said gently. She slashed a nod, but took a step closer.

“We’ll lick them, won’t we?” she asked. She couldn’t help it.

Matt nodded confidently. “They’re newer, bigger, quicker, and their guns are heavier, but we can put just as much iron on target.” The bridge watch growled agreement. “Besides”—he grinned and patted his chair—“we’re the
good
guys, and we’ve got
Walker
. We can’t lose.”

Sandra smiled, but the expression was brittle. “Be . . . careful,” she mouthed, but visibly cursed herself.
There I go again,
she thought.
What a stupid thing to say!
She firmed up. “So long, Captain Reddy. I’ll see you after the fight!” Without another word, she left the bridge.

“Hoist the battle flag,” Matt ordered. “All ahead full! Come right ten degrees! Have Mr. Palmer transmit to all stations that we are engaging the enemy at thirteen twenty-one hours. Mr. Kutas, provide him with our current position, if you please.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Norm replied.

Matt looked through the water-smeared windows. He thought he could just see a small, dark, blurry shape far away on the heaving sea. “Inform Mr. Campeti to commence firing the main battery—at the tanker!”

* * * 

Spanky was soaking wet, but he had to admit he had an amazing view. The ship had never gone into action, nor had he been on the auxiliary conn atop the aft deckhouse with the sea running quite this high.
Everything
was moving, and he could see it all. The sea was roiling, shifting, every second, and a light rain swirled in all directions, whipped and tattered by the wind. Helmeted heads bobbed and moved all over the ship, in the gun tubs of the twenty-fives, along the deck below as Jeek’s division prepped the Nancy to go over the side, and up on the amidships gun platform. Some of the helmets were gray and others polished bronze, but they all had the same distinctive doughboy shape. The slightest wisps of smoke darted from the tops of three funnels and almost instantly vanished. Farther forward, he saw the large battle flag, a replica of the ruined flag that flew over
Walker
at the Battle of Baalkpan, with her major actions embroidered on the stripes, lurch up the foremast halyard and stand out to leeward.

The greatest motion of all seemed to come from
Walker
herself, though Spanky knew that was an illusion. He was almost as far aft on the old ship as you could get, and the stern swooped up and down like an elevator gone amok as she pitched. Sometimes the stern rose so high that the screws flailed at the sea and then dropped so low he thought the waves would swallow him up. Even on the upswing, he never personally saw the target, and again he was struck by the miracle of modern naval gunnery. He knew as much about the mechanical fire-control computer as Campeti did—it was just a complicated machine, after all. Sonny was better with ballistics and trajectories and all the math and stuff, but intellectually Spanky understood how the gun director would be nearly as efficient now as when the sea was at rest. In his gut, however, he couldn’t imagine how they could even hit the
sea
on purpose right now.

The worst illusion—he hoped it was one—was the way the hull itself seemed to twist and squirm in the foam that gushed alongside. He knew
Walker
was working hard, but she couldn’t be doing all that.
Could she?
He looked to his right. Chief Quartermaster Paddy Rosen had joined him; Norm was on the bridge. Norman Kutas might be first lieutenant now, but he’d been at
Walker
’s helm through almost every fight. That’s where he belonged. Back here, Spanky had a good backup crew.
Walker
’s bench got deeper all the time, but he, Paddy, and several ’Cats were just hanging around (and hanging on) for now. He took the sodden tobacco pouch from his pocket and crammed a handful of the yellowish leaves in his mouth, then tried to look confident—and hoped to God they wouldn’t be needed to conn the ship. The brand-new Nancy splashed into the sea alongside, landing awkwardly, upside down. The starboard propeller guard brushed it aside, and it swirled away aft. A single waterspout suddenly jetted skyward a good distance to port.

“You guys better move!” cried Pack Rat. The Lemurian gunner’s mate was gun captain on number four, right behind the aft conn, and the muzzle of the Japanese 4.7-incher was cranked around almost even with the signals station on the forward port side of the platform. The gun was near the maximum elevation of
Walker
’s other guns, but the muzzle blast would be intense.

“Let’s go!” Spanky ordered his companions, and they hurried starboard aft.

“Pointers matched! On target!” Pack Rat shouted to his talker.

“Fire!” the talker yelled back. The ’Cat on the left seat stabbed down on the foot trigger, and nothing happened at once. Then, for an instant,
Walker
was level enough for the gyro to complete the firing circuit, and guns one, two, and four roared.