“Range to cruiser?” Spanky demanded.
“Six thousand!” Bernie Sandison shouted from the starboard wing where he was tracking it with his torpedo director.
“Crow’s nest reports enemy torpedoes in the waater!” Minnie cried, her small voice suddenly very loud.
“Beat us to the draw, did they? We’ll see about that.” Spanky growled. In spite of their maneuvering, Walker and Mahan had outpaced Saa-Leebs, which was starting to take some damaging hits. The tripod mockup simulating one of Savoie’s most prominent features had been knocked askew. “Left full rudder. Make your course zero, nine, zero. Signal Mahan to follow our lead and fire all starboard torpedoes on my command.” Spanky considered ordering Saa-Leebs to turn as well, but feared she’d only make a bigger target for the fish already speeding at her.
“Third Bomb Squaadron’s making a torpedo run on the taarget!” Minnie cried out excitedly as Walker heeled into her turn. Incoming shells churned the sea behind her and they were close enough to see the sudden frantic twinkling of the cruiser’s antiaircraft batteries drawing weak yellow lines in the sky. Paddy Rosen spun the big brass wheel back to center and announced they were on course as Walker steadied.
“I have a solution!” Bernie reminded anxiously.
Spanky held out a hand. “Hold your horses, let’s see this.”
The League planes that struck Salissa and Maaka-Kakja must’ve missed the flights of SBD-2s the carriers already launched and gave no warning at all. The cruiser’s panicky air defense only downed one plane—the only one those on Walker’s bridge ever saw in the dark. Five more successfully, almost leisurely, dropped their Mk-6 torpedoes from a range of less than six hundred yards. (Planes didn’t need the new longer-range fish.) Despite the heavy sea, three struck the cruiser in quick succession, the glowing cataracts of water seen before the knocking boom, boom, boom was heard. There was the slightest pause before a titanic explosion ripped the sea and the League cruiser simply ceased to exist. Spanky thought he saw one of her forward turrets tumbling end over end atop a fiery cloud of molten debris.
But the torpedoes weren’t finished. Purely by chance, one that missed went on to strike the closest League destroyer, retreating behind a futile, wind-whipped smokescreen after loosing its own weapons. Passing to port of the deathly pall of the demolished cruiser, it was enveloped by another towering stalk of sickly lustrous spray.
“I guess you’ll have to wait another turn to play with your new fish, Mr. Sandison,” Spanky deadpanned.
Minnie spoke. “Mr. Caam-peti says the other destroyer, the one we hit, is retiring under smoke. We go aafter her?”
Spanky never had to decide. All the League torpedoes had passed astern of Walker and Mahan when they turned, and Saa-Leebs had only presented a target a hundred feet wide. Practically the eye of a needle under these circumstances. One torpedo threaded the eye and hit Saa-Leebs square on the cutwater, blasting her bow apart in a torrent of spume and tumbling timbers.
“Shit!” Spanky snapped, then blew out a breath. No Grik-built BB could live for long with damage like that. The four transverse bulkheads the Allies installed weren’t watertight; making them so in the crudely built ships was practically impossible. All they were meant to do was slow flooding with the aid of pumps until repairs could be made or the crew taken off. They might’ve killed a cruiser, and maybe a destroyer, but it seemed like a pretty poor trade. There’d be no fixing Saa-Leebs, and Maaka-Kakja was still burning fiercely in the distance. “A hell of a mess,” Spanky muttered.
“Our air strike got off okay, and Martinique’s going to have other visitors tonight,” Bernie Sandison consoled, stepping closer. “I’ll tell you what Chief Silva told me once, when I had to get him out of the brig in Manila. In the old days.”
Spanky blinked. “Wait. Are you about to try to inspire me with something that maniac said?”
Bernie shrugged. “Nah, just something to think about. He’d been in a fight ashore, a big one, and said he learned that no matter how beat and bloody and ready to quit you are, sometimes the other guy’s even worse off, just as ready to throw in the towel. You only have to outlast him.” He frowned. “On that particular occasion, it was three guys. Snipes off the Canopus. But I guess that’s not the point.”
Distracted, Spanky barked at the ’Cat by the EOT. “All ahead one-third, let’s save some fuel.” He turned slightly toward Minnie. “Have Ed inform Captain Reddy the enemy surface force has been destroyed or driven off and he’s free to do whatever’s necessary to aid Makky-Kat. They’ve probably been on pins and needles back there. Then get on the TBS and signal Commander Tiaa on Mahan to move alongside Saa-Leebs and take her people off.” The giant ship only had a crew of forty ’Cats, and about twenty Impies to man her guns. “We’ll stand off and keep an eye out in case that League DD comes sneaking back.” Resting his eyes back on Bernie, he actually managed a laugh. “Silva’s a maniac for sure. Lucky for him the war came along or they’d have had to hang him. But he’s not an idiot.”
CHAPTER 44
////// RRPS Imperator
440 miles E-NE of Martinique
Courtney Bradford remained impressed by the Republic battlecruisers Imperator, Ostia, Augustus, and Songze, even after being aboard one almost continuously for three dreary, often frustrating months. And he was equally pleased with the progress of the sailors manning the Republic’s first “blue water” fleet. He’d been right about Fleet Prefect Tigaas as well. Despite her growing impatience with him, and desire to “steam west and have at the League,” she was as professional as his first impressions led him to believe and he liked her very much. He’d even grown close to his aide, Tribune Nir. This in spite of the fact his first two and a half months “in command” had been marked by stupefying monotony for his captains as they predictably patrolled back and forth between Colonia and Ascension Island (which they exuberantly bombarded each time they passed), and daily, exhausting drills for their crews while they waited for his promised “opportunity.” In all that time, they’d seen no sign of League activity at sea, and even doubted the enemy had maintained its presence on Ascension. Worst of all, they’d “missed” the climax of the war against the Grik, and had heard almost nothing of the progress of the Allied campaign in the Caribbean.
All that changed quite suddenly, because Inquisitor Choon’s intelligence service had been very active indeed, identifying a surprising number of spies by triangulating transmissions dutifully reporting the Republic Fleet’s arrivals and departures at Colonia. Just after the fleet coaled, provisioned, and sailed the last time, intelligence agents swooped in and swept up every spy that had revealed himself, as well as several of their complicated cipher machines. The information bonanza was brief, at least until they could crack the new code that swiftly replaced the old one, but they did learn the details of a powerful, critical supply convoy gathering at the Azores for a run to Martinique. Interestingly, the departure date for the convoy had been delayed due to difficulties in amassing the ships and resources, but was now scheduled to intersect a course Fleet Prefect Tigaas carefully plotted . . . if her ships could make the crossing at full speed. They shelled Ascension Island again—why break tradition, and what if there actually was someone there to report?—but this time the Republic Fleet steamed on to the northeast.
They averaged fifteen knots for five thousand miles and it took them two full weeks (including two days of rare calm they spent hove to so they could refuel) before they reached their current position 440 miles north- northeast of the enemy base at Martinique. And the mostly unruly seas, taken at speed, had revealed a few complaints Courtney could legitimately make about Imperators. Their somewhat stubbly lines and low freeboard made them very wet. And probably because of the wood sandwiched between their plates, they were very loud as well, creaking and groaning in shocking ways Courtney had never heard. But the same conditions, not even real storms, had swamped one of their nine
destroyers with all hands, and periodically scattered most of the rest. The current blow was the lightest they’d faced, yet only five destroyers were with the battlecruisers and their perfectly seaworthy support ships in the black early hours of August fifth—when bugles called Imperator to battle stations, and Courtney was politely invited to the bridge.
Excited, terrified, vengeful ’Cat voices crackled from a speaker on the aft bulkhead, and the bridge crew was listening, entranced. Courtney gratefully accepted a hot cup of srass, a pungent root tea from Trier that he liked, and looked questioningly at Tigaas. Still much farther away at the time, they’d caught similar, scratchy sketches during the Allies’ first air raid on Martinique. This was clearer.
“There seems to be an air and surface engagement underway near Antigua, roughly six hundred kilometers away,” Tribune Nir informed him. “The names ‘Salissa’ and ‘Makky-Kat’ have been spoken in the clear by Allied pilots.”
Courtney nodded, still listening carefully. He’d heard similar traffic many times now, and had acquired a feeling for what went said—and unsaid. “It’s a dreadful shame we can’t let our friends know we’re here,” he lamented.
“Why not?” Tigaas challenged, somewhat angrily.
Courtney sighed. Once they’d detected the enemy supply convoy with scouts sent aloft from the seaplane tender/oiler accompanying them, its progress had been ridiculously easy to track by the massive glowing wake it left at night. And to their knowledge, the little Seevogels had never been spotted in return. One was watching the enemy now, prepared to drop flares and backlight the enemy as soon as they blundered within two thousand yards of the battle line that had been formed and waiting since dusk. Better, the plane the current scout replaced had confirmed a previous report that the battleship, two cruisers, and two of the four destroyers accompanying the otherwise helpless ships were no longer with them. It was possible they remained a threat, still advancing from a different quarter, but Courtney was convinced they’d turned around. They couldn’t discount the two remaining enemy destroyers, but not only did it now seem possible the Repub fleet would survive (something Courtney honestly hadn’t been able to imagine if they faced the original force), the convoy itself should be easy meat. Courtney waved impatiently eastward, out to starboard.
“Our objective—our ‘opportunity’—is there, Fleet Prefect, almost in our laps. And I assure you its destruction will make a far larger contribution to victory than if we simply shout ‘here we are’ and turn and steam to the sound of the guns.” He gestured at the speaker on the bulkhead. “Yes, there’s a battle, but I hear the voices of a great many fliers, few of whom are fighting it—yet. I submit what we’re hearing is but a skirmish, possibly even invited by Captain Reddy, and the greater battle is yet to begin. I’d listen for a lot more voices, from different sources, soon.”
Tigaas blinked consternation. “But how do you know?”
Courtney shrugged. “Because I know Captain Reddy. I’m as sure what we’re hearing is just his opening act as I am that he’s trusting me, all of us, to destroy that League convoy whether he even knows about it or not.” He paused, considering. “That probably sounds rather odd, but you must remember he’s a destroyer skipper, and all such creatures are obsessed with fuel. The logistical preparations necessary to secure fuel for his old ship, then ammunition, new weapons, aircraft, more ships . . . All were born of that obsession, and it not only spawned an industrial revolution throughout the Grand Alliance, but a logistical revolution as well.” He shook his head. “But I digress.” Looking squarely at Tigaas, he continued, “As I said, I know the man. And just as you may be sure he brought plenty of fuel for himself, he’ll mercilessly target the enemy’s supply. So must we.”
A string of bright red lights began igniting in the sky about two miles to the east, and the ghostly shapes of ships, already apparently washed in glowing blood, were revealed beneath the flares.
“Commence firing! All ships, commence firing!” Tigaas shouted. “Our destroyers will attack those of the enemy, but don’t pass up opportunities to torpedo large ships.”
Courtney winced at the thought of Repub DDs going against the League’s, but they might at least keep them occupied. The ship shook when six 10″ rifles roared together, lighting the night with yellow-orange balls of fire. Courtney had opened his mouth to protect his hearing, but neglected to close his eyes. The afterimage would blind him for some time.
All four Imperators were firing now, and less than two minutes into the action, several ships were already afire and the first League tanker exploded. The destroyers and some transports, no doubt, were shooting back with light guns, but the slaughter was going as well as Courtney could’ve hoped when Tribune Nir shouted in his ear, “After all our waiting, work, and preparation, it seems almost too easy.”
“All the work has made it so.” He grinned. “And never complain when you have an advantage, just take it quickly before someone snatches it back.”
CHAPTER 45
////// League-Occupied Martinique
August 5, 1945
0300
The atmosphere in Impero’s flag suite alternated between optimism and gloom, sometimes within minutes of each other. Apparently, all their precious bombers, except a handful of Stukas still here, had been lost in the raid. On the other hand, they’d reported catastrophic hits on both enemy carriers before they went silent. This was confirmed by the shadowing scouting force before it closed to attack as well.
They’d been assailed in turn by what Gravois thought must be Walker and the light cruiser Gray. (A visual report noted again that one was longer than the other.) They’d been excited then, thinking they could win it all that night—until Savoie made her appearance. There was no doubting her identity; she was the only Bretagne Class battleship the League ever had and her silhouette was distinctive. The scout commander was ordered to disable her with torpedoes before disengaging.
The following moments held all the tension of a bitter sporting grudge match, as salvos crossed and destroyers dipped under the arcing shells to launch their deadly primary weapons. The gloom deepened when the cruiser and a destroyer were blotted from the sea, the surviving destroyer captain beating a hasty retreat, unsure whether enemy torpedoes or Savoie’s 340mm rifles had smashed his consorts. Oddly, he’d seen the cruiser firing furiously at the sky just before she was destroyed, but no planes were observed.
On the bright side, Savoie had definitely taken at least one torpedo, and the enemy destroyer and probable cruiser had gone to her aid. The carriers were badly damaged and burning, and even if the cruiser had been shooting at planes from them, they’d have nothing to return to. They might make it to Puerto Rico or Hispaniola, but where would they land? How could they refuel and rearm? There were still some primitive floatplanes about, but everyone was sure they’d seen the last of the enemy’s more dangerous aircraft. So the men in the quarters Gravois borrowed from Ammiraglio Gherzi were in a buoyant mood when several catastrophic events occurred at once. First, a panicky messenger burst in with a report that the relief convoy was squealing madly, in the clear, that it was under attack by four capital ships! Before they could attempt to digest that, they felt the first trembling thumps of powerful detonations, and alarms bugled in the ship.
Everyone raced out to see what was happening, even Capitano Campioni. The tanker moored alongside partially blocked their view, but there was the unmistakable roar of airplane engines and tracers already flailed the sky. The airfields were blazing again, glowing in the distance over the tangle of trees, and as they watched, their remaining fuel storage tanks ashore were wracked by bombs that blew them open and ignited their contents in swirling, orange-black sheets.
Campioni produced a speaking trumpet and bellowed down at confused men on the tanker, just standing and staring. “Take in your lines and shove off! Get that thing away from my ship!” Searchlights snapped on, stabbing at the dark, long
, bright beams whipping in all directions. Stupid, Gravois thought. They’ll draw planes like moths. He was right. A pair of enemy bombers, blue paint purpled by the flames, roared by at Gravois’s eye level, toward a cruiser anchored aft of Impero. Two long objects dropped from their bellies and splashed in the sea. The planes pulled up, barely clearing the cruiser’s wireless aerial, chased by tracers all the way. Gravois looked down and saw yellowish wakes streaming toward the cruiser’s side.
“Savoie didn’t destroy our scout ships, these planes did!” he exclaimed over the thunder of torpedoes hitting the cruiser. Underwater flashes blasted spray as high as the planes had flown. “They were already coming here when we found their carriers!” More than just planes had come. A frantic searchlight swept past speeding shapes on the water, then fastened on a trio of zooming boats. They were relatively small, but considerably larger, beamier, and much faster than any motor launch. Several machine guns mounted on them sent tracers back at the searchlight and it was quickly shattered. Not before Gravois noted their primary armament, however.
“Torpedo boats!” he cried in mounting, barely suppressed terror. “The boats carry torpedoes too!” Another cruiser was hit by at least three of the weapons, and the first was retching flames in the sky and heeling onto its side. Its crew fought one another for the few bobbing boats about to be crushed by the descending, fire-shrouded superstructure. Their panic was understandable. Many who’d instinctively jumped to avoid the flames were already being shredded by teeming flasher fish, and the water around all the stricken vessels boiled with pinkish foam. The defensive fire was frenzied now, utterly wild, and if some managed to destroy a few enemy boats and planes, more was probably hitting friendly ships. Gravois’s devious mind could plot and scheme, but it was never trained to deal with such calamity, on such a scale, all hurled at him at once. It was finally just too much, and all he could do was watch, transfixed, as his meticulously laid plan was enveloped in fire and burned to ash.
Winds of Wrath Page 50
