Firestorm : Destroyermen (9781101544556)

by Anderson, Taylor

  “Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan,” Minnie replied nervously.

  “This is nuts,” Gray said, glaring at Jenks.

  “Cap-i-taan,” Minnie cried, “lookout say rockets—flares—burst over enemy ships!”

  Matt looked through the window to starboard as Walker steered to run parallel to the anchorage. He saw the dwindling sparkles in the sky. “I guess they’re passing the word,” he said, with a glance of his own at Jenks. Most of the Dominion ships were stern-on to the old destroyer as she steamed south, angling to cross down the line of anchored vessels, at a range of roughly fifteen hundred yards; close enough to entice a shot, but not close enough to make it easy. A few were starting to get their act together, cutting their cables and beginning to move backward, blossoming headsails pulling them around. Finally, one ship, its broadside clear, vanished behind a rolling cloud of smoke.

  “All ahead flank!” Matt yelled. “Left full rudder!”

  The helmsman spun the wheel and with a deep, vibrating groan, Walker’s screws clawed at the sea. A wide cluster of waterspouts erupted in her wake, and one shot struck the ship with a hollow boom.

  “Damage report!” Matt demanded. “Rudder amidships.”

  Minnie shook her head. “Mr. Spaanky say a big ball whacked the stern at starboard propeller guard. It falling when it hit, an’ splash in sea. Maybe just a dent.”

  “My rudder amidships,” announced the ’Cat at the wheel.

  “Very well. Hold your course. Damage control to the steering engine room!”

  Another ship fired an erratic broadside, but Walker was picking up speed. At this range, few balls would skate off the wavetops, and all the geysers erupted aft. They waited a few minutes. Evidently, the enemy believed they’d chased the strange ship away, because there was no more firing. Nearing four thousand yards again, they had no chance of hitting, anyway.

  “Helm, come to course one, six, zero!” Matt said. He looked at Finny. “Slow to two-thirds before we suck the bunkers dry. Minnie, tell Campeti we’re about to settle down and when we do, I want him to punish those bastards!” Finally, he looked at Jenks. “Satisfied, Commodore?” He waited for a nod, then resumed. “Harvey, I consider you a friend, amazingly enough. Particularly considering the foot we started on. But there’s only so much you can ask of this ship and her crew, especially with what’s at stake—here and elsewhere. We all need Walker, and she needs her crew. I’ll risk them both; I have many times, but what we just did was plain stupid. In case you haven’t noticed, there aren’t any rules in this damn war. You can say fighting like the enemy makes us like them, but that’s not true. We didn’t start it, and we can’t hold ourselves to an artificial standard they don’t even recognize.” He straightened and took a breath. “So I went ahead and proved it to you again. But here’s the deal: friends or not, that was the last time. Expecting more stunts like that one, to prove a point, to show we’re better than they are, is pushing too far. We are better than they are, and I don’t feel like proving it again!”

  “Caam-pee-tee has a solution, Skipper,” Minnie said.

  “Very well. Commence firing.”

  The salvo buzzer rang, and the foredeck lit up under the overcast sky as the number one gun bucked and spit flame and white smoke. They had no tracers for the new ammunition yet, but the rhino-pig lard they lubed the projectiles with to keep the fouling soft left a spiraling smoke trail. It didn’t matter. Matt had no doubt that the shells from numbers one, three, and four would converge either short or long of the target. The EMs had replaced all the ships old, corroded, electrical fire control systems and connections, and they’d finally compensated for the different velocity of the 4.7-inch dual-purpose Japanese gun that had replaced number four. They also had sharp eyes to watch for the fall of shot. A moment later came the cry from the fire control platform above to adjust “Down fifty! Match pointers! Fire!” This time the three exploding shells, two with black powder bursting charges and one with high explosive, demolished the first target, a Dom heavy of some sort, the first one that fired at them. Campeti immediately shifted to the next. In moments, perhaps a dozen enemy ships were burning or destroyed, and still the pounding continued. Walker ceased firing at the southern end of the anchorage and reversed course, to continue flailing at the enemy. The dark cliffs of the distant island glowed with the flames of burning ships.

  “Damn,” breathed Kutas with satisfaction. “It’s almost like ‘Makas-sar Strait’ all over again,” he said, referencing their only real success in their “old” war against the Japanese.

  Some of the enemy was making sail at last, trying to escape the growing inferno, but none could succeed as long as Walker had ammunition. Matt knew he couldn’t destroy them all—they simply didn’t have enough shells—but they could break the force destined for Saint Francis and leave it too weak to accomplish its mission. As soon as enough of the warships were dealt with, he meant to move in closer and shatter as many transports as he could. For a while, he watched the slaughter with his jaw grimly set, oblivious to all but the destruction he wrought.

  “Captain Reddy!” He finally heard his name over the booming guns and diminishing swoosh of shells. It was Jenks.

  “What?”

  “Your ‘talker’!”

  Matt spun. “What is it?”

  “Cap-i-taan,” Minnie repeated, “the lookout says those giant lizard birds are back. Dozens of ’em, an’ they flying this way!”

  Matt, Jenks, and the Bosun ran out on the starboard bridgewing and focused their binoculars. High above, and ignoring the enemy ships, came a ragged formation of the oversize creatures.

  “My God,” Jenks muttered. “I’ve never seen so many together!”

  “Will they attack?” Matt asked.

  “It appears that’s their intent. Look, some have large stones in their claws!”

  “Why ain’t they dumpin’ ’em on those Doms?” Gray demanded.

  “I’ve no idea.” Jenks paused nervously. “Captain Reddy, those dragons really shouldn’t tolerate the Doms on ‘their’ island while they inhabit it!”

  “Then what the hell?”

  “I can’t answer. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Matt tore his eyes from the binoculars. “Air action starboard!” he roared. “All hands not on gun’s crews will take small arms and prepare to repel boarders, but try to stay undercover!”

  It was incredible. There were forty or fifty of the things winging toward them. In most respects they looked like their smaller cousins the destroyermen had grown accustomed to, pacing the ship and shitting on the decks whenever they ventured near land. These “lizard birds” were bigger than Grik, however, and had a lot in common with the Ancient Enemy except for their wings and the bright colors of their furry plumage. The closer they came, the more terrifying they appeared.

  Behind him, Matt heard the muffled thumping of feet on metal rungs as ’Cats raced up the ladder to the fire control platform, draped with belts of .30-cal for the machine guns mounted there. Others brought extra ammo to the .50s on the amidships deckhouse; beyond that, the Japanese pom-poms where the aft torpedo tubes used to be were made ready as well. Sailors scrambled to the rails with Springfields and muskets, passed out by Lanier, Chief Gunner’s Mate Paul Stites, and Stumpy. The “dragon birds” were getting closer.

  “Cap-i-taan!” Minnie cried. “Mr. Spaanky requests permission for the number four gun to engage the flying lizards!” Matt was surprised. He hadn’t known they had time-fused shells for the dual-purpose gun. He’d never considered asking since the idea of shooting at airborne targets hadn’t occurred to him before. If they had the shells, it was time to use them. “Absolutely,” he said. Almost immediately, the aft gun boomed and an instant later, a black puff appeared in front of the advancing flock. The creatures nearest the detonation veered past it and kept coming. The rounds pumped out, in rapid fire, throwing a blanket of steel in their path. One puff shredded a monster’s wing and killed another outright with slashing fr
agments. The dead one folded and dropped, and the wounded one spiraled downward, shrieking. There were short-lived cheers, but the creatures were close enough for the machine guns now.

  All the while, numbers one and two continued firing at the enemy ships, but seeing the oncoming creatures, Matt couldn’t leave the gun’s crews out in the open.

  “Cease firing and secure main battery, all but number four!” he ordered. “Helm, come to course zero, two, zero, all ahead full! Secondary battery and small arms will commence firing at targets of opportunity!” He gestured at Tabasco to hand him his belt.

  “No, no, you idiot!” yelled Chief Gunner’s Mate Paul Stites around a wad of yellowish Lemurian tobacco. “You gotta lead ’em! Shoot where they’re gonna be, not where they are! You’re just wastin’ bullets!”

  “How I know where they gonna be?” yelled the ’Cat striker behind the ’fifty, beside the “pom-pom pit.” “I not see future!”

  The “dragon birds” were splitting up, trying to encircle the ship, it seemed. But Walker’s speed must have come as a big surprise, and they appeared to be having trouble adjusting their approach as the old destroyer sped up. All the machine guns were stuttering now; the wind-muffled, crackling prattle of the .30s on the fire control platform, the throatier, deafening bursts of the .50s amidships. Reynolds directed his “Special Air Detail” on the pom-poms protecting his plane, and the numbing bam-bam-bamming of the things was starting to really hurt. Stites was directing the fifties just aft of the pom-poms, under the overhang of the aft deckhouse where the 4.7-inch dual-purpose was banging away, and the position was . . . detrimental to normal conversation.

  Most of the “secondary battery” was giving a good account of itself. Tracers rose and converged on their targets, staggering the beasts in midair. The things were fast, but they weren’t Japanese planes. Some plummeted into the sea with roaring, surprised, wails of terror, where they floundered until something like flashies began tearing at them. Maybe they were flashies. The wails became . . . worse . . . then; like horses burning alive. Others flew on, little fazed by holes in their furry, membranous wings.

  “Get away from that thing!” Stites roared at the ’Cat gunner when a higher-flying creature suddenly darted over the ship and released a large rock amid a flurry of Springfield and musket fire. The rock struck between the “Nancy” and the searchlight tower, barely missing the aft engine room skylights. It shattered on impact, leaving a dent in the deck and spraying sharp shards of stone. Stites realized that many of the creatures carried rocks, and others carried . . . something else . . . in each eagle-clawed foot. He finished shoving the ’Cat from the gun that had once been in one of the waist blisters of the old PBY and grabbed the handles himself. “Everything in naval gunnery’s about shooting where something’s going to be, Genius,” he ranted. “If you haven’t figured that out yet, you might as well strike for snipe—or go to work for Lanier!” he added as the ultimate insult. He wrenched the .50 around and crouched behind the sights just as he felt the deck shiver with multiple impacts. The damn things are bombing us! With rocks!

  The 4.7-inch went silent, and a fusillade of small arms erupted from that position. Stites swung the gun aft and up and saw a trio of dragon birds coming in astern. These he could shoot directly at because they were making a beeline for him. He depressed the trigger. A stream of tracers from his gun and the one to port swept across the things, spattering gobbets of flesh and bone. Two dropped in the wake, but one bore in, crippled. It slammed into the aft deckhouse where the old three-incher would have been, and he felt another tremor. Immediately, ’Cats fired down on it from above, and his spine tingled as he prayed they had enough sense to watch for the depth charges in the racks. A quiver started at his neck and ended at his tailbone, but he shook his head when the stern wasn’t blown off.

  “Look out!” someone cried when a dragon bird actually lit on the searchlight tower and attacked the rail with its teeth.

  “Shoot it, but for God’s sake, don’t hit the light!” Stites yelled. Lanier himself waddled from under the amidships deckhouse and hosed the thing with a Thompson. It squealed and tried to lunge at him, but it fell to the deck instead, flailing with wings, teeth, tail, and claws. “Son of a bitch!” It was the closest look Stites had had at the things and he suspected it must be light for its size, but it probably still weighed three or four hundred pounds. Its body and wings were a bright, fuzzy, bluish gray on top, and white-gray underneath. The head was almost orange, with streaks of purple-blue and yellow radiating from liquid yellow eyes. Oddly, the head colors were reflected in the tail plumage to a remarkable degree.

  “Goddamn, creepy-ass . . .” He looked up. The dragon birds were having more trouble keeping up now, maybe tiring, and some began to fall astern as the ship accelerated past twenty-five knots, smoke gushing from her funnels. Faster ones still dropped things, however, but these objects made metallic sounds when they hit. There were screams from forward, and he saw a couple of ’Cats tumble off the amidships deckhouse. With a sick feeling, he realized one went into the water alongside. Another dragon bird swooped low and snatched one of the fallen ’Cats, a female, who shrieked horribly when the thing leaped back into the air, clutching her in its claws. She must have been too heavy for it, because it immediately lost altitude, though no one would shoot at it—until it dropped its screaming victim in the sea and frantically beat its wings. Probably everyone on the starboard side of the ship shot at it then, and it crashed into the water.

  Stites snatched a ’Cat by the scruff of the neck. “Can you hit anything besides the goddamn ocean with this thing?” he demanded. The ’Cat nodded, and Stites flung him at the gun, snatching up his “personal” BAR. “Keep at ’em,” he yelled, “but watch where you’re shooting! They’re starting to get on the ship!”

  Maybe they were tired, or maybe that was just what they did, but more and more of the surviving attackers lit on Walker and attacked her crew on her own deck. Many converged on the bridge as if sensing that was the “head” of their victim. Stites glanced back at Reynolds. The aviator looked terrified, but he was holding his own, a 1911 Colt smoking in his hand.

  “You got this, sir?” Stites asked. Reynolds jerked a nod. “Watch out for Spanky!” Stites yelled, pointing up at the auxiliary conn, forward of the dual-purpose gun. A pair of monsters had landed there, and Spanky was shooting his own pistol now. Stites aimed and fired a burst at the head of one of the things. It fell on the starboard propeller guard and vanished in the roiling wake. Spanky, or someone, apparently killed the other, but more were trying to land. “Watch him!” Stites yelled again, “and watch yourself! I’m going forward!”

  “This just about beats all!” Kutas cried when a “dragon bird” threw something that ricocheted off the number one gun’s splinter shield, then flared out for a landing on the fo’c’sle. The Bosun had run down there with his Thompson to protect two ’Cats who hadn’t made it to cover and were trying to conceal themselves around the gun. The.30s up above were still chattering loudly, but either they had problems of their own or were afraid to shoot so near their shipmates. Gray ran at the thing, roaring like a demon to distract it from the helpless ’Cats. It whirled on him and snarled, and he fired a burst that sent it tumbling into the sea.

  Matt ran to the aft rail and looked up and aft. They’d made a dent—a big one—in the terrifying creatures, and many had finally peeled off and headed back toward the island. But now the stubborn ones, maybe twenty or more, seemed intent on attacking the bridge. He leaned over the signal flag locker to see down on the weather deck below. One creature lay dead beside the base of the number one funnel. Carl “Boats” Bashear was carrying a ’Cat toward the companionway to the wardroom, and he almost slammed into Bradford who was apparently coming up to see what was going on. The Australian froze, despite Bashear’s harsh bellow, and just stood there, staring around, enchanted.

  “Get below!” Matt yelled. Instead, Bradford seemed to notice the dead creature fo
r the first time and started in its direction. A dull shadow fell across him. “Damn it, Courtney,” Matt roared, “get below!”

  Bradford looked up, and that was all he needed to break his trance. Instantly, he whirled and chased Bashear down the companionway. The signal halyard ropes slapped Matt across the face and chest and sent him reeling back into the pilothouse, stumbling, and finally falling on his back. A dragon bird, still trailing the parted lines, landed in the cramped space where he’d been. Minnie squeaked and started to duck behind the chart house bulkhead, but she reversed course in an instant to try to drag her seemingly stunned captain to safety. She was half his size and just couldn’t do it. Jenks shouted and ran past her, sword in hand. Slashing at the monster’s face, he didn’t see the wicked claw at the bend of its wing slash in from the left, across his shoulder, sending him sprawling as well. The thing hopped forward, squalling, trying to shake off the halyard lines. Matt, now kicking with his heels to help Minnie, fumbled for his pistol. The Colt came out, and flipping off the thumb safety, he emptied the magazine at the creature. It screamed and flailed more violently, but now Matt had time to stand. Inserting another magazine, he took more careful aim and shot the dragon bird dead with a pair of shots.

  Another flared just above him, going for the fire control platform. He shot at it too, but what probably brought it down, almost on top of the other one, was a staccato of Thompson and BAR fire that sprayed blood all over Matt and the side of the chart house, and sent a cloud of downy fuzz drifting quickly aft. There were more shots from both guns, but Matt couldn’t see the targets. He grabbed Jenks, and with Minnie’s help, dragged the Imperial underneath the overhead.

  “I’m fine,” Jenks protested, “I’m quite all right!”

  “You’ve got a pretty good cut there, Commodore,” Matt said, peeling back the bloody coat and weskit beneath. Jenks had been slashed from the left shoulder, across his chest, and upward across his chin. The firing finally began to slack outside, and Stites and the Bosun crawled gingerly over the dead beasts clogging the space at the top of the ladder, pointing their muzzles at them as they crossed.