Rising Tides d-5

by Taylor Anderson

  He blinked again and saw the ’Cats at the throttle staring at him, blinking horror. He did a quick inventory of himself and as far as he could tell, he wasn’t injured. Looking down, he realized the same wasn’t the case for three of the four members of the damage-control party. At least two were dead. One might be, and the fourth was sitting on the deck plates, stunned. Miami… Well, he was dead. Spanky shook his head, clearing the fuzz, and realized the turbines were winding down.

  “Shit!” He lurched to the speaking tube. They didn’t rely much on electronics in battle anymore. “This is McFarlane in the forward engine room. What’s going on up there?”

  “Commaander McFaarlane!” came a relieved cry. It was Minnie. “You come to bridge quick! You needed on the bridge!”

  Spanky paused, looking at the air lock to the aft fireroom. “Uh, what’s the story on the boilers? Why’re we losing steam back here?”

  “I don’t know!” came the panicked but strangely distant reply.

  “Well, put somebody on that does!” he bellowed.

  “I can’t!” the girl-he always thought of them as girls now-practically screeched back at him.

  “Well… who’s got the conn?”

  “I DO! ”

  “ Jeez! ” That’s why the voice sounded so distant. “Okay, okay, pull yourself together! I’ll pass the conn off to auxiliary from here, then I’m on my way! Get, uh, Finny! You got Finny on the horn?”

  “I got Finny and Tabby in the forward fireroom! Everything fine in there!”

  Thank God. “Tell Tabby to bypass the aft fireroom and route steam back to the turbines! Finny needs to take his party topside and get their asses in through the deck access to check on numbers three and four! Warn him to vent the space before they go in. I’m on my way!”

  He opened the cover of the tube to the auxiliary conn on the aft deckhouse and was further deafened by the heavy bark of the Japanese

  4.7-inch gun. “Bashear!”

  “This is Bashear.”

  “Listen, you got the conn until further notice. We got the talker steerin’ the ship! What the hell’s goin’ on up there?”

  “I don’t know, Spanky. We just got clobbered, and there’s steam and smoke gushin’ everywhere. I can’t see forward of the searchlight tower! It looks to me like one o’ those big bastards suckered Frankie in close and then shotgunned us!” Bashear sounded harried.

  “Okay, stay loose. You should have number two back on line directly. Try to get us the hell away from whatever’s poundin’ on us. You still got Campeti on the horn?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell him to pour everything he’s got at the closest target. Use the HE in the Jap gun. Blow the bastards off us if you have to! I’m gonna try an’ get to the pilothouse!”

  “Aye, Spanky!”

  Spanky glanced at the blood and gore around him, then looked at the throttlemen. Other ’Cats were beginning to arrive from aft. “Listen,” he said to Bashear once more. “We got wounded down here. Call around. See if you can round up a corpsman.”

  “I’ll try, but most are ashore with Chack and there’s a lot of wounded up here too.”

  “Right.” Spanky directed one of the newcomers to the apparent corpses. “Check them fellas and do what you can for the hurt.” He paused and caught the eye of the steadiest-looking throttleman. “I gotta scram, so you’re in charge for now. Keep these guys cool down here,” he admonished, then launched himself up the ladder to the main deck above. If the aft fireroom was full of steam, he didn’t dare open the air lock and let it in.

  On deck, he was greeted by a hellish scene, grown all too familiar. Steam and smoke swirled up from the starboard side, filling the deck.’Cats ran back and forth, some hauling hoses, others just running, screaming, their fur scorched black. The Japanese antiaircraft guns hammered his ears and the number three gun added its smoke to the mix even though its crew couldn’t see and had to be suffering in the choking air. That was Pack Rat’s gun now, and he knew the Lemurian gunner’s mate would never leave it. The Dominion liner lay to starboard, a little aft now, and even through the heavy haze caused by burning wooden ships, he saw it had been riddled with holes. Another comparatively feeble broadside blossomed from its side, punishing Walker further with a few more hits. Spanky felt the shot strikes pound through his shoes like trip-hammer blows, but he also noted several small splashes in the sea alongside. Not all the enemy shot was penetrating, he realized. Maybe not even most. Thank God. If it was, after the blows he’d felt, they’d already be sinking. The ship had slowed almost to a stop, however, and was beginning to wallow in the swells.

  He ran into Jeek, directing his division in throwing a curtain of water on the smoke, trying to get it to lay. Reynolds was probably still in the wardroom with Kari. Jeek yelled that he had no idea whether there was fire under all that smoke, but he wasn’t letting it anywhere near the aft deckhouse where the last plane and all the aviation fuel was stored. Spanky repeated what he’d said to Bashear about corpsmen, but Jeek just looked around and shrugged. Spanky raced on, under the amidships gun platform on the port side of the galley, headed for the bridge, but was brought up short by Earl Lanier, calmly sitting on his precious Coke machine and eating a sandwich.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Guardin’ my machine!” the fat cook snarled. “What’s it look like? All my mess attendants is on report! Bastards didn’t stow my baby below before this fracas, they just hauled ass to their battle stations! I had to drag it around here from the other side by myself!”

  “Why aren’t you at your battle station?” Spanky demanded.

  “I am! Why ain’t you at yours?”

  Shaking his head, Spanky resumed his sprint. At least Earl was doing something. His usual battle station was in the head.

  It was awful on the bridge. The new battle shutters covered the windows, so there wasn’t much broken glass, but at least one shot had come through the thin side plating of the starboard bridgewing and plowed up the wooden strakes in its passage. The chart table was shattered and twisted askew, and the handle had been sheared clean off the engine room telegraph. The damage to the bridge wasn’t what caught his eyes at first, however.

  Four bodies lay on the shattered strakes. Norm Kutas was alive, but had splinters running up the backs of his legs, all the way to his buttocks. A pair of ’Cat pharmacist’s mates had already arrived and were trying to get him on a stretcher. Ed Palmer, hair scorched and face blackened, seemed okay otherwise, though winded. Two ’Cats were obviously dead, their blood dripping through the strakes from terrible wounds, and the brave Lemurian talker was still at the wheel, holding it in an iron grip even though she no longer controlled the ship. Others began to arrive, grabbing bodies and carrying them away, but none touched Frankie Steele.

  Frankie had somehow dragged himself up against the forward bulkhead. He wore a curious expression on his pale face, staring down at the stumps of both his legs, gone above the knees. To Spanky’s amazement, he spoke.

  “Hey, Spanky,” he said, almost whispering. “Skipper gives me the keys, and what’s the first thing I do? I wrap her around a tree.”

  “Oh, Frankie,” Spanky said hoarsely, kneeling beside him. “Even the Skipper’s banged her up a time or two. You know that.”

  “Yeah. But not like this. Not stupid.” Slowly, he looked into Spanky’s eyes. “An’ we just got her fixed up from the last time!” He paused. “Mr. Ellis! Where’s Mr. Ellis?”

  “Jim’s fine,” Spanky said softly. “Just busy is all.” Jim Ellis was on the other side of the world.

  Frankie smiled. “Good man. He’ll be a swell skipper for Mahan, once he settles in.” His chin slumped slowly to his chest and he was gone.

  “Goddamn,” Spanky said, and stood. He looked at Minnie. “Are you fit for duty?” he demanded. Shakily, she nodded. “Then get back to your station! Mr. Palmer, I presume by your presence that you have no more pressing duties, so you have the conn. I have the deck. T
alker? Replacements to the bridge, and inform Mr. Bashear to relinquish the conn. I expect he’s got other things to do. What’s the status on the boilers?” He patted his chest. “And somebody get me some binoculars!”

  For the last several moments, there’d been no incoming fire. Taking the offered binoculars, Spanky strode onto the bridgewing and scanned around to determine why. He saw with satisfaction that their primary tormentor was low in the water and beginning to abandon. A few good hits with the Jap 4.7 at the waterline had probably settled her hash. The transports still lay ahead, obscured by a growing fogbank of smoke, but they’d gained some distance, bright sparks in black smoke soaring high from their stacks. They hadn’t turned away, however-not yet. They seemed intent on finding protection behind another pair of liners approaching Walker from the west. The number one gun barked and bucked, and a round shrieked away to explode in the fo’c’sle of one of them, but Spanky couldn’t tell if it did much good. A ’Cat pounced on the smoking brass shell as it fell to the deck from the opened breech. He tossed it in a nearby basket almost full of other dingy, blackened cartridges.

  Spanky picked his way across the shattered strakes to the port bridgewing. More liners were approaching from the port quarter. Damn. He needed steam! For a moment, he wondered where the enemy frigates were. They had to be faster, and should have been all over him by now. He shrugged. Gift horses were rare critters. “Steam?” he demanded again.

  “Finny report now, daamitt!” the talker replied, frustrated. Spanky couldn’t stop a small smile. “He say boilers okay, but main steam line and feed-water pipe is shot. Smoke uptakes too. An’ there’s oil an’ water in the bilge from leak somewhere…”

  “Tell Finny I don’t give a damn what’s wrong, only how long it’ll take to fix-and what he needs to do it! Does he need people?”

  “Almost all firemen in forward fireroom okay, they cram in air locks on both sides. He got them. Actually, Tabby got them…” The talker paused. “Tabby on the horn.”

  “Spanky Skipper now?” came the tinny question. No drawl was present.

  “Aye,” the talker replied.

  “Then tell Spanky to fight ship! I fight mess down here! Finny bypassed three an’ four. Spanky lucky to have number two back, soon as pressure builds again! I fix the others as fast as I can, they fixed when they fixed! Spanky don’t get no more holes in my poor ship! He hear?”

  Spanky rolled his eyes and nodded.

  “He hear,” confirmed the talker.

  “What’s the pressure on number two?” Spanky asked.

  “Ah, eighty and rising,” Palmer replied, “but… there’s still nothing getting to the engine room!”

  “Crap. Finny must’ve shut everything off. Get Tabby on it ASAP. We gotta move.” He stepped outside and glassed around again. “Okay, tell Campeti to have the number one gun concentrate on the transports with fire control assistance. All others will stay on the advancing warships in local control. Aim for their bows, tear ’em up!”

  “Comm-aander,” said the talker, “lookout reports Taas-itus and Euripides have fought through enemy frigates, trying to join us here!”

  “Is that so? Well, that explains the frigates. Tell Campeti to keep firing, but watch his targets! We might have friendlies out there shortly.”

  The battle off Scapa Flow became a race for position. By all rights and reasonable expectations, it should have been over; the Dominion plan had been thwarted in the sense that there was now no way they could still land troops with surprise, and surprise had been the key to success. Unreadable signals flying from a large, distant liner confirmed that the enemy understood this as well, because even as the Dominion warships jockeyed to reconsolidate and reform, the surviving transports-minus one more that Walker had disabled-finally drew away to the west. Walker ’s lookout confirmed that Imperial ships of the line, “battle waagons,” were finally out of the harbor and forming up as well. Fully two-thirds of the Dominion ships were heading for them, trying to cut them off.

  At first Spanky didn’t understand. Why continue the fight? Intellectually, he expected an interesting match. Several Dominion liners were disabled or destroyed, so the numbers would be nearly equal. The contest between the two fleets would pit ships with many guns, propelled by sail alone, against ships with fewer, bigger guns, powered by sail and steam. There were advantages and disadvantages inherent to the philosophies behind each fleet, and Spanky knew Matt would be fascinated. But then Spanky did understand. The remaining third of the Dominion fleet, a little hard-used and frigate-heavy now, was gathering to approach Walker. Apparently the old destroyer had made an impression on the enemy commander, because the major battle shaping northeast of her position seemed designed solely to ensure that nothing beyond the now battered Tacitus and Euripides could come to Walker ’s aid.

  “Oh, shit,” he muttered. “Tell Tabby the boilers might be ‘fixed when they’re fixed,’ but we need at least one of ’em fixed right damn now.”

  “She trying!” cried the talker. “She not know why there no steam to engines!”

  Spanky looked around, frustrated. He needed to be helping out with engineering, but right now he had to be on the bridge. He thought furiously for a moment, battling the various necessities in his mind. The simple fact was, even if the Skipper and the others hadn’t been ashore, Walker ’s bench just wasn’t deep enough for this anymore. There were plenty of good, professional ’Cats aboard, but dealing with situations like this could be learned only by experience. He could put Bashear back in charge, but the Bosun was knee-deep as it was. Campeti was busy too. He thought Norm could handle it, but he’d already been taken to the wardroom. He finally came to the conclusion that, however unprepared for overall command he considered himself, he was the only remotely qualified person available. He had to stay where he was. With Miami dead, that left only Tabby to do his job. She knew Walker ’s boilers inside and out, literally. He just hoped she’d picked up enough of the rest of the ship’s engineering plant, and how it all worked together. He sighed.

  “Tell Tabby she better find out, and quick. This ship and everybody aboard needs her to be a chief engineer right now. If we’re not underway in ten minutes, we’re all dead.”

  The talker gulped, tail swishing, and relayed his words. Tabby didn’t reply.

  “ Euripides is coming out of the smoke of that burning liner-off the starboard beam now!” Palmer cried. “She looks pretty chewed.”

  The Imperial frigate had lost her mainmast and its remains had been cut away. Black smoke poured from a dozen holes in her tall, skinny stack, and bright splintered wood glared from her dark-painted hull. Both her paddle wheels still churned vigorously alongside, though, and she was approaching at a respectable clip. A few moments later, Tacitus appeared as well, and if anything, she looked worse than her sister. Only her mizzen and bowsprit still stood, and she was kind of crab-walking around a battered starboard paddle box, but somehow she was managing to keep pace with Euripides. Shredded Imperial flags still proudly streamed from both ships.

  “Have Campeti pass the word! ‘Friendies’ on the starboard quarter, do not fire on them!” Spanky ordered. The command probably hadn’t been necessary, but Spanky didn’t want any mistakes in the chaos.

  “ Euripides signaling to make for our starboard side,” the talker echoed the lookout. “ Tacitus angling aft; she come alongside to port.”

  Shortly afterward, Euripides backpedaled, her paddle wheels throwing up a mountain of foam as she arrested her forward motion alongside the wallowing destroyer. Tacitus was still coming up, more laboriously, but bundled hammocks, sails, and other items were being slung over her shattered starboard bulwarks, like bumpers on a tug.

  “What the hell?” Spanky muttered.

  “Ahoy there, Walker,” came a cry from the catwalk between the paddle boxes on Euripides. Spanky grabbed a speaking trumpet and dashed onto the starboard bridgewing, avoiding the jagged metal there. He saw a man he recognized as a friend of Jenks’s poi
nting a trumpet at him. He’d actually given the man a tour of Walker ’s firerooms, but he couldn’t remember his name.

  “Ahoy, Euripides!” he cried. “It’s good to see you after such a. .. busy morning. I hope we’re still friends after all the trouble we’ve gotten you into.”

  “Nonsense! Wouldn’t have missed it!” came the reply. “I did notice that your wondrously complicated internals seem a bit out of sorts.”

  Spanky grimaced at the gentle jab. “We’ll get our ‘internals’ sorted out,” he said. “But I appreciate your concern.”

  The figure on the catwalk shrugged. “I’m not terribly concerned, actually. Not after the way you tore through those Dom ships of the line-well done, that-but I do bear orders from the Governor-Emperor himself, via Commodore Jenks, to do whatever may be in my power, regardless of cost, to prevent serious damage to your ingenious, but frankly, somewhat… ill-favored ship. I do hope ‘ill-favored’ is not too provocative?”

  Spanky laughed. “Beauty’s a matter of perception and opinion. Your ship don’t look too pretty herself right now.” A mighty splash erupted off Walker ’s bow, and the number one gun, now trained out to port, replied at one of the closing enemy ships with a loud crack and a long tongue of smoky yellow flame.