Firestorm : Destroyermen (9781101544556)

by Anderson, Taylor

  “Damn. Busted my favorite gun again.” He looked at Chack, his eye now clear. “We better get the hell outta here! Nobody else is shootin’ just now, and they’ll have seen our smoke. Remember what I said about cut-tin’ a shiksak’s head off? I bet its whole, floppin’ carcass is about to land on top of us!”

  Lawrence’s bright eyes bulged. “You didn’t say carcass could choose where to land!”

  Dennis gently kissed his broken weapon and laid it on the floor. “So long, Doll. I’ll be back for ya!” He snatched his Thompson and the belt loaded with his pistol, cutlass, bayonet, and mag pouches that he’d removed for comfort during his shot, and hustled Lawrence toward the stairs. “Well . . . maybe it won’t, but you know how them shiksaks are! They tend to flop toward what killed ’em even after they’re dead! Don’t forget your musket—might need that!”

  “Batteries, commence firing! Fire at will,” Chack roared down from the crumbling rooftop on which he, Blas, Blair, some of their staffs . . . and others . . . had assembled.

  “What in blazes are they shooting at?” Blair demanded. “All morning, not a shot, then they grow irked at that one structure? Madness!”

  “That ‘structure’ is the one Chief Silva asked us to avoid demolishing last night,” Chack reminded him, his tail swishing irritably, “while he was repairing his giant musket. He and Lawrence must’ve secured it, and now they have managed to . . . do something exceptionally annoying to the Doms. You may have heard Silva has that effect on people?”

  The “grand battery” the allies began assembling the morning before now included almost thirty big guns, plus all the field artillery with its explosive case shot Chack and Blair could bring down from the Waterford pass. From their hastily formed, then carefully reinforced positions roughly a thousand yards or “tails” (handy how that worked out so closely) from the “Dom” bastion, Chack’s batteries opened fire in ones and twos, but soon the entire line hammered at the enemy from within an impenetrable white cloud of continuous, earsplitting thunder and dazzling, lightninglike flashes. Smoke billowed across the shot-churned, devastated “no-man’s-land” that had evolved between the positions, and drifted west toward the base of the more extreme slope that still lay under a blanket of lingering gun smoke caused by the long duel. Despite the improved visibility daylight afforded the enemy, Chack was amazed to see, from his elevated post, almost the entire remaining Dom artillery target the nearly lone-standing structure both sides had thus far largely ignored. The building was very rapidly disintegrating under the combined hail of iron.

  “Whatever he did,” Blas said, “ ‘irked’ seems a weak word. It means ‘a little pissed,’ yes? They pissed a lot!”

  “I certainly hope your strange friends have made their escape,” Blair said, “but whatever they did to attract such fire, our guns are now slaughtering theirs with virtually no reply.” He looked meaningfully at Chack. “And the enemy’s attention is suddenly quite fixed.”

  “Very well.” Chack looked at Blas and motioned her to join the “partisans” who’d brought them one of Colonel Shinya’s exhausted “Maa-ni-lo” Marines, along with a squad of the first Imperial Marines he’d found when he wandered into a command post near the waterfront a few hours before. “Assist that Marine in his task, Lieutenant,” he said. “He has earned the honor.”

  The Marine, a corporal by the stripes on his kilt, blinked appreciation, but waved at the locals. “Thank you, sir, but this is their Home.”

  “Well put,” Chack agreed, nodding. “Corporal, would you assist Lieutenant Blas-Ma-Ar in showing the loyal citizens how to fire the signal rockets Colonel Shinya sent? Major Blair, I’m going to join my troops. I suggest you remain here.”

  Blair smiled. “Major Chack, if I thought it necessary for anyone to remain behind, I’d insist it be you . . . but we’ve all earned this!”

  Chack grinned, his sharp teeth shining in the sunlight. “Very well, Major. Lieutenant Blas will remain and direct the reserves, if any are needed.” He glanced at the furiously blinking female. “She has ‘earned’ the rest!”

  “Rockets!” Lawrence said, staring into the sky from the debris-choked culvert where they huddled, scarcely a hundred and fifty yards from the wheelwright’s shop being systematically pulverized. Fewer Dom guns were firing now, however. “’Retty rockets!”

  Silva looked up at the sputtering, dissolving flares. “Those’re signal rockets, you imbi-cile!” he shouted. The sudden thunder of drums couldn’t compete with the allied guns, but it bled through between reports. “Attack’s a’comin’!” he announced gleefully. Then his abused ears heard other drums, more distant, resonating against the mountains. “Ha-ha! I knew that Jap couldn’t stay outta this!” He removed the twenty-round stick from the Thompson, blew dust off of the rounds clustered at the top, and slid it back in with a shklak. “C’mon, Fuzzy, let’s try to get back in this fight before it’s all over!”

  Lawrence looked at the cap under the hammer of his musket. “You think it’s nearly o’er?”

  “Yep . . . if it ain’t already! Let’s go!”

  “Ain’t ’uzzy!” Lawrence grumbled, and the two of them bounced up amid a cloud of plaster dust and ran and leaped toward the middle of what had once been the exclusive “Company” district of North New Dublin where nothing of the desolated houses and shops still stood higher than Silva’s knees. That was where the center of the advancing ranks would pass.

  “It” wasn’t completely over for some. Now almost surrounded, the Doms in the old bastion had no chance. The grueling, almost thirty-hour bombardment had taken a terrible toll on lives and nerves, and the “regulars” and rebels had been ready to surrender with the coming of the day and the realization they were all alone. The city burned and smoldered beneath the smoky sky and against the incongruously achingly beautiful landscape beyond. Reinforcements weren’t coming; there was nothing on the coast road from Bray but refugees fleeing the only direction they could from a wall of fire that encompassed all the vast valley of the island. The entire host Don Alfonso and the Bishop of the Seven Relics led down the Waterford road had surely been consumed by the flames of the hell they’d marched into. Even Bray would probably burn. Nothing re- mained on that now-desolate, virtual plain between the stronghold and the enemy in New Dublin, and nothing could possibly remain of the grand plan to advance the “Modo de los Santos” and take this place for themselves, their leaders, and the greater glory of God.

  Into this outpost of ruin, misery, death, and defeat, Cardinal Don Kukulkan de los Islas Guapas, newly appointed Ruler of the Conquest and Saver of Souls, emerged into the hot, bloody day and went among the shattered men of the garrison. Few were unmoved by his gesture and most honestly expected him to Purify himself before them and release his soul into God’s embrace. Perhaps that was his ultimate intent, but first he began to pray. He prayed that the men of the garrison would enter paradise boldly, each with a long tally of the unclean heretics they’d cast into hell. He prayed their families wouldn’t suffer excessively due to their sacrifice, and if they did, that God and the saints would readily accept them because of it—in some capacity at least. He’d just finished this last plea on behalf of the doomed men around him, the men he was condemning with his words, his charge, his edict not to yield, when his head blew up.

  At first, there was shock and, frankly, superstitious awe, until an artilleryman cried that the cardinal had been shot by a distant, hidden marksman. That announcement created pandemonium because it just wasn’t possible . . . was it? Regardless, the artillery commander shook off the dreadful implications of the event and summoned the wits—or whatever it took—to order all his guns to fire on the indicated building. That galvanized all the troops into action of some sort, and they’d begun reverting to their training . . . when the barrage suddenly resumed. Dominion soldiers, rebels, fugitive family members, all were caught in the open when heavy roundshot and high-velocity shards of stone slashed them apart. Case shot exploded over the fort, sc
ything into flesh and bone with red-hot copper fragments and musket balls. The hail of death was unrelenting, and the screams competed with thundering guns and bursting case. The garrison would cast no heretics into hell; hell had found them there, within their demolished walls.

  Then the apostates formed for their final assault, not only from the southeast, but from the west where no troops could possibly have gathered! The artillery commander, who’d somehow survived the onslaught, saw this, and his confused mind finally crystallized around a coherent thought: surrender. He raced for a pair of blood-spattered breeches that had been blown nearly off a corpse, yanked a mangled leg out of them, and cast it away; then he began tying the morbid garment to a rammer staff. A “Blood Drinker” cut him down with a sword. Outraged, the artillerymen fell upon all the Blood Drinkers, joined by the regulars who dared to brave the maelstrom. The elite, holy guard of the pope himself all got their most fervent wish when they were shot, stabbed, and torn apart by their own countrymen. Only then did the white flag wave above the bastion.

  “All that beautiful music, then somebody called off the dance!” roared an unhappy voice behind Tamatsu Shinya. He was standing on the rubble of what had been the southwest wall of the bastion, thinking dark thoughts, and staring down into a pulverized cauldron of mangled flesh. Men and ’Cats moved through the carnage, coughing on the dust they raised and occasionally retching at the stench. They were searching for signs of life, but there were few survivors after the majority of the shell-shocked defenders had been led or carried from the fort. In spite of himself and the scene he viewed, a corner of Shinya’s mouth quirked upward, and he turned. Dennis Silva stood grinning at him, Lawrence by his side. Both were filthy, and Silva had an ugly wound on his face.

  “You have contrived to cheat death once more, I see,” Shinya said.

  “Good to see you too, Colonel. I’m fine. Thanks for askin’.” Silva gestured around. “You missed a good fight.” He paused. “In the city the other night, I mean. This was just killin’.”

  “I heard you had a hand in that . . . again.”

  Silva waved modestly and kicked a bronze gun tube, half-buried. “Shucks, it was nothin’.” His expression turned serious. “You musta seen Chack?” Shinya nodded. “Good. He was lookin’ for you.” The grin returned. “You mighta missed the fight, but I sure was glad to see you come marchin’ across that field, yonder. How’d you get there, and so damn fast?”

  “A quite dreadful march, I assure you,” Shinya said ruefully. “And still too late.”

  “Don’t worry. There’ll be plenty more fights in this war, and you can’t miss ’em all! I’ve decided to retire from the battle-winnin’ business. Folks are startin’ to whisper that maybe I’m hoggin’ all the glory.” Silva shook his head. “Spread the joy, I always say.”

  Shinya chuckled. “If I had not spent so much time around you, and Americans in general, I might think you were serious.” It was Shinya’s turn to shake his head. “You will never retire—and you will never die . . . my friend. The day may come when you no longer breathe or live among us, but you will never die.”

  For a moment, Dennis said nothing. Suddenly, he stuck out a grimy paw. “Say, did you just call me ‘my friend’?”

  “I did.”

  “Didja mean it?”

  Shinya took the offered hand. “Yes. Yes I did, if you’ve no objection.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Off “Monterey” Bay

  USS Walker and her “squadron” of three paddle frigates and a sloop exchanged signals and rendezvoused with Mertz, Tindal, Simms, Achilles, and the two practically “clipper” rigged oilers sixty miles offshore beneath a warm, benevolent sky, upon a placid sea. Commander Grimsley of Achilles had been acclaimed commodore of the “detached” Second Fleet squadron by the ’Cat captains on the other ships due to his knowledge of the waters. Besides, Jenks’s former exec was well liked and respected—and he’d definitely seen more action. He was also smart enough to grasp the qualitative differences between his ship and those of the “Amer-i-caan” ’Cats, and they’d discussed tactics based on those strengths and weaknesses many times during the long voyage.

  Walker made a beeline for the oilers like a hungry wolf pup to a teat, and hoses were rigged across and pumps engaged to fill her grumbling bunkers. At Matt’s orders, the frigates took their turns at the other oiler. They probably had sufficient fuel, having topped off a few days earlier, but like any destroyer skipper, Matt remained obsessive about fuel—particularly when they were this far from home. Achilles could replenish her coal bunkers locally, and the oilers retained a sufficient reserve to see the rest of them all back to the Isles, but what if something happened to the oilers?

  While fueling was underway, the air between the gathered ships virtually sizzled with messages, plans, and reports. Matt and Walker learned of the opening stages of the campaigns for Ceylon and New Ireland, at least to the extent they’d progressed before distance interfered with communications. They also received the love and best wishes of certain persons attached to TF Maaka-Kakja, via Respite to Scapa Flow.

  Matt sat in his chair in Walker’s pilothouse, gazing sightlessly out the windows at the fo’c’sle. Sandra never strayed far from his mind, and he yearned to speak to her, see her, hold her in his arms. Absence doesn’t always really make the heart grow fonder, but in his case, it certainly did.... But at the same time, he knew a crossroads had been reached. The “Dame Famine” was slowly fading, and the primary obstacle to their “relationship” had finally, essentially passed. But that very relationship had left a kind of scar, a fundamental wound that was difficult to understand or explain. They’d suppressed their love, hidden it, then downplayed it so long, it had become a damaged, inconvenient thing, and as much as it had been a source of strength to them both, it had also harmed them in subtle ways. It had been so long, and so much had happened to them both since they’d seen each other, he knew they’d both changed.

  A heat flashed across his shoulders and up and down his back. He’d made a fateful decision regarding that relationship; one he might regret for any number of reasons, maybe for the rest of his life. But things simply couldn’t go on as they had—for both their sakes. Sandra might not agree, and she’d undoubtedly suffer either way, maybe even more than he would, but he’d made up his mind. Ultimately, the choice would be hers as well, of course. She’d already suffered, and she’d invested so much of herself into what they had, he would not force his decision on her, but for himself, he knew it had to be. He sighed.

  “Signal the fleet,” he said quietly. “All ships will advance at ten knots in line abreast on a course of one, two, five degrees. Ten-thousand-yard intervals. Tindal will screen to landward, Mertz to seaward. Double all lookouts, report any and all sightings. When Tindal opens Monterey Bay, she’ll enter in company with Achilles and destroy all enemy shipping. No boarding, just stand off and sink ’em unless they strike their colors. Direct those that choose to surrender to drive their ships hard aground; we don’t have time to fool with them. Tindal and Achilles will then rejoin the fleet, and if contact hasn’t already been made with the enemy, we’ll resume our advance to meet him.” He rubbed the young stubble on his chin, suddenly missing Juan. “Tabasco” was a fine steward, but it had taken Matt a long time to let Juan shave him. Tabasco wasn’t ready yet, and he was back to performing the chore himself. Despite his terrible coffee, Juan had spoiled him badly.

  “Make sure all ships confirm receipt.” He looked around at the faces on the bridge, saw their surprised blinking or arched eyebrows, and wondered if his voice had sounded as normal as he’d thought. “All ahead one-third, if you please.”

  “Sea’s getting up a little, Skipper,” Spanky observed unnecessarily, coming on the bridge at 0400 with the morning watch. “Even ’Cat’s’ll have a hell of a time seeing anything out there with this overcast.”

  “They know what to look for. There are—were—steamers with the Dom fleet. They’ll be throwing sparks.
”

  Spanky grunted. “Like ‘our’ Imperials? Hell. It looks like the Fourth o’ July out there. Wish they’d go to oil.”

  “I’m sure they will over time,” Matt replied absently.

  Spanky looked at him with concern. “Did you get any sleep?

  Matt grinned. “No, and neither did Tabasco, I’m afraid. He makes better coffee than Juan, at least.”

  “Poor devil,” Spanky clucked. “He needs to learn to stand up to that grubby bastard Lanier. Juan knew how to do that! I saw Tabasco down in the galley, building sandwiches for the bridge watch, and Earl was giving him fits. One of these days, one of his ‘little monkey’ mess attendants is gonna beat the hell out of him—and he’ll probably wonder why! If I see it, I won’t say a word unless they’re killing him. Earl’s a turd, but he can cook. I can’t choke down ’Cat food. Too spicy.”

  Matt chuckled. “You’d better encourage some of those mess attendants to learn to cook something you can eat, besides sandwiches. One of these days, Earl’s liable to catch something over the side that’ll pull him over and eat him! Did you see what he caught just while we were tied up at Saint Francis?”

  Earl Lanier was a fiend for fishing—and fish—and he’d sampled the denizens of nearly every port they’d touched. Just about anyone would’ve eaten many of the things he caught, but sometimes he brought things aboard that nobody even wanted to know were in the water. A couple of times, he had nearly been snatched into the sea.