Winds of Wrath

by Taylor Anderson

  “‘Bait’? For what? And depending on their gunnery, a ‘glimpse’ is all they might need,” Spanky grumbled.

  “We’ll cross in front of ’em and invite a fight, then get ’em to chase us through those islands between St. Vincent and Grenada. They’re supposed to be the ‘Grenadines,’ but don’t look quite right.” He shook his head. “Nothing new about that. I just hope the charts Admiral Semmes gave us are good, because that’s tricky water.” He looked up. “And that’s why we’ll lead ’em in. They get tangled up in those islands, they lose sea room and their range advantage—and keep burning fuel. Once it’s dark and they’re committed, focused entirely on us, our bombers’ll take ’em from the unengaged side. Then we’ll lunge in and turn the fight into a barroom brawl instead of a long-range punching match.” He paused, thoughtfully. “I don’t think anybody can plan what happens after that, but at least with islands around, crippled ships might run aground and keep their people out of the sea, away from the damned flashies.” After a moment of contemplative silence, he spoke to Ed Palmer. “Send to all commands: I want every scout plane we have in the air, and real-time coordinates on all enemy ships. We don’t want any of ours stumbling into them piecemeal at this point!”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Sandra gave his arm a gentle squeeze. She knew he sometimes worried that, in situations like this, he let his instinctive aggression get the better of him and cloud his judgment, but she couldn’t see an alternative. And Matt’s relationship with Spanky, Keje, Bates, or any of his senior officers was such that if anyone had a better idea, they’d speak up. No one did.

  Keje’s tail swished as he looked out at the fo’c’sle and the white-capping purple sea. Walker was surging through it, bounding and blowing spray. In most ways, despite the countless patches and makeshift repairs and the many miles she’d steamed since her last overhaul, the old ship was healthier than she’d usually been on this world. Even her normal creaks and groans were stifled by the anxious roar of her blowers and machinery. It was almost like she was eager to meet what lay ahead.

  In contrast, the tails of the ’Cats of the bridge watch swayed as much as Keje’s, if more erratically, betraying their tension. After the brief action against modern ships the previous night, they knew what they were getting into. At least they thought they did. They wouldn’t have been sane if they weren’t afraid.

  “My friends . . . my faamily,” Keje said evenly, blinking affection, “we haave dared maany desperate moments together. I’m no Sky Priest to entreat the Heavens as Adar once did, so I caan’t be as sure the Maker will listen, but if you haave no objection, I’ll offer the same prayer and perhaaps He will hear.”

  “By all means,” Matt told him.

  Turning to port, toward the morning sun, Keje spread his arms. All the ’Cats but the one at the wheel copied him unselfconsciously. “Maker of All Things!” Keje said loudly. “I beg your protection for myself—and all your people gaathered in this ship.” He paused. “And do not forget the ship herself. She is as alive as any Home ever waas, and haas done your work here well.” He took a breath. “But if it is indeed our Time, please light our spirits’ paaths to their everlaasting Homes in the Heavens.”

  Crossing their arms over their chests, all the ’Cats bowed. Then Keje grinned. “And to those who haaven’t heard it before, yes, thaat’s it.”

  “I’ve heard it,” Sir Sean assured, smiling, “but it’s always struck me as rather broad.”

  “It’s an inclusive prayer for the protection of maany,” Keje told him. “I like to think the Maker hears our little selfish ones, as well. I’ll be adding a lot of those over the next few days, I’m sure.”

  “Amen to that,” Spanky said.

  CHAPTER 48

  MANEUVERS

  ////// USS Savoie

  The Caribbean

  The United Allied Fleet gathered and rearranged its might throughout the day. TF-Jenks had remained largely unchanged throughout its inconspicuous cruise, as had TF-Tassanna as soon as it came into being. Now, as they both swept east and gradually converged, Admiral Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan’s carrier, USS New Dublin, and USS Sular, transporting Chack’s Brigade and II Corps’ 6th Division, fell back with all the fast cargo ships and all but one fleet oiler to join TF-Tassanna’s USS Madraas. Tassanna’s escorting destroyers, except for James Ellis, sped off toward TF-Jenks.

  High Admiral Jenks now had the superdreadnaught Savoie (and her shadow, La-Laanti); the light cruisers Fitzhugh Gray and Maa-ni-la; Impie cruisers Mars, Centurion, Mithra, Hermes, Diana, Ananke, Feronia, and Nesoi; as well as the “modern” DDs McDonald, Tassat, Daanis, Steele, Araina, and Sineaa under his titular command. With Walker and Mahan racing down, virtually every Allied combatant, other than the Nussies busy at Martinique, and Courtney’s Repubs on the way, would be gathered in one place. It was a formidable force on paper, the most powerful the Allies ever assembled, but even Jenks wasn’t persuaded his own country’s cruisers could make a significant contribution. Particularly in daylight, as it now seemed they must. He distracted himself by smoking his pipe and pacing Savoie’s bridge with Ambassador Doocy Meek and Captain Russ Chappelle while the latter ran low-impact gunnery drills to perform last-minute tests on equipment and polish the sharp edge his gun’s crews had achieved through daily training across half the planet. Calling out imaginary targets to the talker, who relayed them to Gunny Horn in the armored but still dangerously exposed fire control platform above the bridge, they watched the massive turrets train out and their guns seemingly elevate of their own volition.

  “I’m always amazed to witness that,” Jenks proclaimed, twisting his long mustaches and exhaling a gust of smoke. “Similar evolutions on your cruisers and mine”—by that he meant the Impie’s—“are quite impressive, but these things . . .” He gestured at the numbers one and two gunhouses forward. “They’re of an entirely different order of magnitude. And you have seven of them to hurl their monstrous projectiles!”

  “Wish we still had eight, because the Leaguers have a whole lot more,” Russ complained. The left gun in Savoie’s number one turret had been badly damaged (by Horn) during the action in which she was captured. It was removed at Baalkpan and replaced by a gun from the number three turret, aft. It had been a big job, inspired entirely by Russ’s preference for more firepower forward, but by then Savoie hadn’t needed much more work. Most had been completed by Tarakan Island and her own crew on the long voyage home. The empty hole in the face of the number three turret had been covered by the last sections of Amagi’s armor plate they had left.

  Russ brightened. “And don’t sell ‘your’ cruisers short. Their crews’ve learned to operate seamlessly with ours and their main guns aren’t that bad. Each ship can loft four 250-pound shells, and keep ’em pretty tight out to ten thousand yards. The five and a halfs we all use aren’t much good past fifteen thousand.” He didn’t add that none of them would penetrate thick armor at that range. “And to be honest, I’d hate to catch Gunny Horn’s eye that far with the new gear in Savoie, but it’s not good enough for anything past that.”

  “And the enemy can be expected to hit us at what range?”

  Doocy Meek spoke up. “That depends on how good they are—and frankly, how well they’ve maintained their equipment and ammunition. Fiedler said they didn’t at all, for a while, and only just started trying to make new ammunition. They may not have any yet, and some of their old stuff could be unreliable. Worst case, I’d say about fifteen thousand too.”

  Russ nodded agreement, but frowned. “With three BBs, probably four cruisers—don’t know how many are heavy or light—and maybe as many DDs as us, if those that got out of Martinique join up . . .” He forced a grin. “I’m praying for a lot of duds.”

  USS Madraas (CV-8)

  With the arrival of Admiral Lelaa in New Dublin, Commodore Tassanna-Ay-Arracca no longer commanded the task force bearing her name and was relieved
in more ways than one. Their combined carriers, auxiliaries, and Sular, of course, now protected by Perry Brister’s lone USS James Ellis, was a larger force than she was used to handling. It would also make an irresistible target, she thought. She was grateful for Lelaa’s greater experience and reassured by her confidence they’d remained undetected. Their older Nancy scouts, which the enemy would hopefully attribute to outdated frigates the Allies had converted to seaplane tenders, had dogged Gherzi’s fleet throughout its sortie. There were no other League ships—and their radios—anywhere around, and the scarce Dom ships discovered hugging the coast were destroyed by their prowling Dom prizes, USS Destroyer and USS Sword, under Captain Ruik-Sor-Ra. Otherwise, they’d stayed too far out to sea to be bothered by Grikbirds. Only Dom “dragons,” with their ability to carry observers (and bombs) posed a serious threat, and their combat air patrol had easily killed the few of those they’d spotted. Either the enemy was short of them, or they were occupied elsewhere. Maybe both. Trailing TF-Jenks by only twenty miles now, Admiral Lelaa took TF-Tassanna pounding east-southeast behind the rest of the United Fleet at fifteen knots.

  “Strike all but the ready fighters on the caatapults down below,” Tassanna ordered. “Commaander Jumbo Fisher and Cap-i-taan Jis-Tikkar will be aarriving with their bombers this aafternoon.” She was a little concerned about that. Madraas had unofficially been designated the “fighter carrier” for this operation, and had a full loadout of Bull-Bats, but she’d never even practiced recovering and launching the equally new, much bigger, SBD-2 torpedo bombers. The possibility they might have to learn in darkness was even more unsettling. “We don’t know how maany they’re bringing, or even if we’ll haave space for them all, so Ahd-mi-raal Lelaa commaanded thaat we be ready to throw fighters into the sea.” She looked at Madraas’s XO. “If so, we’ll probaably haave to do it quickly, so aassemble details and haave them staand by.”

  “Whaat ordnaance for tonight?” the XO asked.

  “Torpedoes.”

  Gherzi

  Ammiraglio di Divisione Bruto Gherzi moved uncomfortably back to the plush chair provided for him on Tourville’s bridge. Groaning slightly, he sat, and glanced surreptitiously at the men at their stations. He was surprised again by the apparent lack of derision radiating in his direction. There’d been some at first, of course, when he (an Italian) hoisted his flag aboard the elderly, but mighty, and unusually well-maintained French dreadnaught. This was due as much to his nationality and the sometimes bitter rivalry between the preeminent members of the League as it was his rotund frame—and resultant, painful gout. Oddly, however, as the ill-fated sortie progressed, he noted a gradual softening in the resentment aimed at him, and was amazed to discover the padded chair awaiting him on the bridge the morning before.

  He wondered about that. He hadn’t gone out of his way to curry favor—quite the opposite. He’d made it clear what he expected—that their orders would be followed to the letter—then settled in to shoulder the initial hostility and his own misery without complaint. He avoided interfering with the ship’s officers or business in any way, except insofar as its position in the formation and their pursuit of the objective was concerned. That was nothing special; he always operated like that. He was the fleet commander, and couldn’t care less how the men in the engine room tied their shoes. Not an ardent fascist, his general competence, obvious lack of political ambition, and popularity-inspiring behavior was probably the only reason he’d survived the snake-pit intrigues and purges in the League.

  His stoic, carefully polite personality may have cracked the ice, but his sincere obsession with saving every man they could after two of their destroyers, one French, struck mines earned the respect of Tourville’s officers. Truth be known, he would’ve done his best to save enemies in the water. This world’s seas were no place for a man—or anything else—to die. Tourville’s Capitaine de vaisseau Michel Sartre in particular may’ve been just as impressed by the reluctant resolution with which Gherzi then completed his mission and mercilessly shelled Santiago into flaming rubble, once catching Gherzi mumbling, “Damn you, Gravois,” under his breath.

  Commandant Sartre made occasional probing observations after that, pertaining to everything from their place in this world in general, to his anxiety about the motives of Victor Gravois. Gherzi made no comment, but didn’t upbraid Sartre either. He believed a man’s thoughts should be his own. Besides, he privately loathed Gravois as much as Sartre apparently did. Somehow, this became understood. Maybe his face betrayed something when they learned of the attacks on Martinique, or he was less than discreet when it was reported they had no fuel to replenish their bunkers, and no port to return to. Regardless, the chair had appeared.

  Now the silent, painful pacing he’d just engaged in had made clear to all his fury that his entire, oil-thirsty strike force was waiting off the east coast of the island of St. Vincent solely for Gravois to make his appearance and lead them to salvation. A lone ship had been seen approaching from that direction and they were waiting for it to identify itself.

  “Ship is the Spanish Canet,” announced a messenger from the port lookouts. His excitement ebbed when he continued. “She asks if the scout planes overhead are ours.”

  They weren’t, of course. The little Allied floatplanes had pestered them all the way from Santiago. Most infuriating (and unnerving) was how they dropped bright flares at night, marking the formation’s progress for all to see. Unfortunately, of all Gherzi’s ships with aircraft catapults, only Tourville still had a plane, and it had been worked half to death. It was blowing oil and desperately needed maintenance. With no threat imagined between them and Puerto del Cielo, Sartre finally allowed his air division to begin necessary repairs.

  “Tell Canet they are not,” Sartre replied darkly, then said aside to Gherzi, “At least she escaped the debacle at Martinique. Now the world wonders, where’s Gravois and Leopardo?” Gherzi frowned at the sarcasm, but remained silent. That might cost him someday, if word got out, but his orphaned strike force was in a bad way, its morale in the bilge. He wouldn’t contribute to more unease.

  “Message from Leopardo,” a runner from the radio room almost immediately told them. “She sees our smoke and will round the island behind Canet.”

  “Very well, record the time in the log,” Sartre told the man, glancing at the chronometer on the bulkhead beyond the helmsman. 1620.

  “Commandant!” came the cry of another messenger. “Starboard lookouts report surface contacts on the horizon, south-southwest, bearing two, one, zero!”

  Gherzi stood, wincing. “What? How many? What are they?”

  Sartre quickly strode to the aft bulkhead and spoke into a voice tube himself. A tinny reply came from the foremast fighting top high above, built during a major modernization. Before it was installed, the ship had only a single mast, amidships, of very limited utility. Sartre was the only one who clearly heard the report and his tanned face paled. Looking at Gherzi, he spoke in a tone of disbelief. “It’s difficult to tell at this distance, Ammiraglio, but the lookout is sure of more than a dozen warships, at least two of which strongly resemble this one . . . or more accurately, Savoie.”

  Gherzi blinked. “But . . .” They’d listened disbelievingly to the reports of the cruiser that engaged “Savoie” to the north, before its transmissions ended. But it was impossible that two of her could be here, especially if the surviving destroyer’s account of torpedo damage was true. And where was that destroyer? “They can’t be more of our ships, also escaped from Martinique?” Gherzi asked hopefully.

  “No.”

  “Then only one possibility remains. Contact . . . Monsieur Gravois in Leopardo, and inform him the enemy fleet is in sight.”

  Sartre gave the order, and a messenger returned with Gravois’s reply. It seemed almost as breathless as the man who brought it:

  CONGRATULATIONS AMMIRAGLIO GHERZI. DISCOVERY OF PREVIOUSLY UNEXPECTED
FORCE—CONCUR IT MUST BE MAIN BODY ENEMY SURFACE FLEET—SOLVES MANY MYSTERIES. ENGAGE AND DESTROY AT ONCE. ALL OTHER CONSIDERATIONS SECONDARY.

  “‘All other considerations secondary,’” Gherzi quoted aloud, after passing the page to Commandant Sartre. An overt bitterness colored his tone for the first time. He took a long breath. “Signal the fleet. Form line of battle—cruisers leading the battleships, destroyers in line to port. Then we’ll come about to the south on a course of one, eight, zero. Make turns for twenty knots.”

  Sartre relayed the order, then asked, “Destroyers on the disengaged side? Shouldn’t we put them forward, to scout what we face? Perhaps make torpedo attacks?”

  “Do we have unlimited torpedoes?” Gherzi asked. “I thought not. And not knowing what we face, we must scout with our better-protected ships. Unless your remaining scout plane can fly?”

  Sartre shook his head regretfully.

  “Not your fault, Commandant Sartre,” Gherzi soothed gently, then the bitterness returned. “I wonder if Monsieur Gravois will be joining us in Leopardo? And I certainly hope our last oiler remains safe at our destination, or after we destroy the enemy, our mighty fleet will be so many aimless iron rafts.”

  USS Walker

  Chief Gunner’s Mate Dennis Silva and several ’Cats hurriedly disconnected the lines holding the end of the long, fat hose down in the fueling trunk on the fo’c’sle. He waved at a crew-’Cat on the big new wooden-hulled fleet oiler, USS Mangoro. The ’Cat waved back and raised his whistle. Walker and the oiler were steaming at fifteen knots less than fifty feet from each other, and Silva never heard the whistle over the swishing rush of the sea between the ships. The boom operators did, though, and the hose whipped up and away, drizzling dark dots on the deck. “Bear a hand there!” Silva bellowed at his detail. “Lick that oil up quick, ’er Tabby’ll knot yer tails together an’ give ’em to Chief Jeek for mooring lines!” He turned back toward the pilothouse and waved again. “All bunkers’re topped off an’ fuelin’ trunk hatches are secure!” he bellowed. Walker immediately veered away from the larger ship and accelerated to catch Mahan, already speeding east past Savoie and La-Laanti.