“Affirmative, Commodore.”
Sluff picked up the handset again. “Smoke, this is Bear. Change One. We will launch against the destroyers, and then turn to conduct a torpedo attack against the new skunks coming in from the west. Acknowledge.”
The ships replied in turn.
“One minute to launch point.”
Sluff heard the Barrett’s forward-torpedo-mount train motors grinding away as it swung out to port. The ship’s talkers were feeding ranges and bearings to the torpedo fire-control station and to Barrett’s gun plot.
“Smoke, this is Bear. One minute.” He looked down at the plot. The Jap column was still going southeast while his destroyers were closing in on the acute-angle course that led to the best launch point. The ships approaching from the west were way off on one side of the plot.
“Mark launch point,” Garing said.
“Smoke, this is Bear. Launch.”
Sluff handed the TBS handset to Garing and nodded, signaling that now was the time to issue the turn-away order. To his horror, Garing froze. “Um, north or south, sir—I’m sorry, I’m confused.”
Sluff grabbed the handset back and gave the orders himself, turning the destroyer formation away from the southbound Japanese column while setting his gang to cross the possible cruisers approaching from the west. Lieutenant Commander Garing sat down on his stool with a totally confused expression in his face.
“Smoke, this is Bear,” Sluff transmitted. “Prepare to launch all remaining torpedoes at western enemy force.”
As the destroyers acknowledged the preparatory orders, Sluff looked down at the DRT plot. His turn to the southwest now had his destroyers in an echelon formation, which meant that the ships out on the right flank were blocking the firing bearings for the rest of the destroyers. He needed to straighten out the line and said so to Lieutenant Griggs.
“Recommend turn to starboard to three four zero,” Griggs said. “That’ll put us back in line column with a clear shot at the incoming enemy ships.”
“What’s the range and bearing to those contacts?” Sluff asked.
“Two six zero, eighteen thousand yards and closing fast, Commodore,” one of the plotters reported.
Sluff didn’t like it. If he turned back to the northwest, his entire squadron would be wasting valuable time completing the maneuver while the Jap cruisers closed in at thirty-five knots. And, unlike American cruisers, Jap cruisers carried torpedoes.
Think. Think. Think!
“Combat, bridge, our torpedoes are hitting to the east. Three distinct explosions. Providence appears to have opened fire.”
Dammit, Sluff thought. The admiral hadn’t waited. If the approaching Jap cruisers hadn’t known about Providence before this, they did now. The flashes from her six-inch guns would reveal exactly what they were up against, and, more important, exactly where she was. He hoped to God the Japs hadn’t brought down eight-inch-gunned heavy cruisers for this little party.
He took a deep breath and keyed the TBS handset. “Smoke, this is Bear. Immediate execute, turn two six zero, speed two-seven. I say again, turn two six zero, speed two-seven. Stand by, execute. We’re going to run right through them. Fire torpedoes as your tubes bear. Commence firing guns as soon as you launch torpedoes or they see you.”
He felt Barrett lean into the new course, her hull thrumming with the power of fifty thousand shaft horsepower punishing the warm waters of Ironbottom Sound. He took one last look at the plot. His entire squadron was heading straight for the approaching Jap cruiser formation with a closing speed of nearly seventy miles an hour.
This would go fast, he thought, and suddenly realized he wanted to be topside when it happened. He glanced over at his operations officer, who now had his head in his hands and his eyes closed. Deal with that problem later, he thought, and then he left CIC and scrambled up the interior ladder to the pilothouse.
As he stepped through the door into the pilothouse, the wind stream blowing in from the bridge wing made his eyes water for a second. The bosun saw him in the dim red light and announced, “Commodore’s on the bridge.”
Sluff saw two dim figures out on the starboard bridge wing and hastened to join them. Barrett had one chipped propeller, which vibrated when the ship was at high speed. Up here on the bridge the vibration was pronounced, and objects on the chart table were dancing in time to the spinning blade three hundred feet aft. As he stepped out onto the bridge wing he heard the first of five torpedoes going over the side. He looked out into the muggy darkness and saw nothing at all. Barrett’s skipper was staring intently through his binoculars on a bearing thirty degrees to the right of the bow. Sluff looked down on the forecastle and saw the forward two five-inch mounts quivering in radar-controlled increments, their barrels pointed out, low and flat, right where the skipper was looking. Then a star shell burst overhead and Sluff got to see what they were tangling with.
The nearest Jap ship was a Takao-class heavy cruiser, whose forward turrets were already training in their direction, just as Barrett’s forward five-inch let fly with the opening salvo. The range was close, very close, and Sluff could see red-hot embers that were their shells going out, lifting in a minuscule arc and then settling down to smash into the cruiser’s forward superstructure. He was dimly aware of the after five-inch getting into it as their guns bore and wondered if their shells would have time to arm before hitting the oncoming cruiser. He was mesmerized by the sight of the powerful black monster steaming at them, so close that he thought he could see the faces of the officers high up in that towering pagoda structure, and then her eight-inch guns exploded right in his face.
There was an ear-crushing crash of metal as the eight-inch shells smashed into Barrett’s comparatively fragile superstructure. Sluff felt the deck beneath him sag and then collapse from the impact, dimly aware that the incoming shells had not exploded but rather had passed right through the destroyer’s thin hull. As he clutched the bull rail, trying desperately to stay upright, he saw a waterspout rise along the cruiser’s starboard side as one of their torpedoes hit. But it was a small waterspout, not the hull-puncturing blast he’d hoped for, as yet another American torpedo failed to go off. The Long Lance torpedo fired by the cruiser did not fail. An immense blow hammered Barrett amidships that literally lifted her out of the water for a throat-clenching second. Sluff turned to look aft. His feet were sliding aft as the ship collapsed into two pieces, and then a second salvo of eight-inch struck all along Barrett’s starboard side, some going right through, some exploding inside the ship, all signing the eviscerated destroyer’s death warrant. The ship’s back half kept driving forward at twenty-seven knots, pushing the now detached front half into a swooping ninety-degree turn just before it fell over sideways, and catapulting the commodore of one day’s standing out into the grasping waters of Ironbottom Sound.
He landed in the water, popped up courtesy of his kapok life jacket, and then something large and heavy hit him squarely in the head. He saw stars, a red haze, and then, almost gratefully, he blacked out.
PART TWO
THE CASTAWAY
TWENTY-ONE
Kalai Island
Something bit his elbow, then his hand. He opened his eyes and then a wave washed over his face, the salt stinging his eyes. Something bit his ankle, something with really sharp teeth this time. He looked down the length of his body, barely visible over the mound of sodden, oily kapok that had been his life jacket. He shook the water out of his eyes and his head told him to never do that again, not ever. It took him a full minute to wait out the pain.
Where am I? he wondered. What’s happened? And then with a startling realization that made his eyes open right back up: Who am I? What am I doing here?
Another wave smacked him in the face. This time he blinked just in time. He was lying on something and he thought he could hear surf thumping and rolling somewhere over there. He looked, and saw big swells rising up out of the water as they came in, cascading into a coil of beautiful b
lue-green water before being demolished. It was morning, and he could see right through those coiled waves just before they crashed down.
A reef. He was lying on a reef. He put his hands down, trying to sit upright. Something bit both hands.
Coral. He was lying on a coral reef, and it was like taking a nap on a bed of razors. He felt the right side of his head, where the lightning bolt had come from a moment earlier. It was matted, swollen, and tender to the touch. Suddenly he wanted to lie back down and just go back to sleep. Finish this dream, then wake up and start over. He looked again at the swells assaulting the reef, no more than fifty feet away. Then he looked in the opposite direction and saw an island with alien-looking black-sand beaches across a dark and still lagoon. Coconut trees and tropical jungle came right down to the beach. Beyond that there was more jungle, and beyond that were hills and then a green mountain that rose high enough that he had to move his head to take it all in. The lightning came back when he moved his head.
He lifted his hands and saw that he was wearing a long-sleeved khaki shirt, buttoned at the wrists. His hands had several pinpricks that were weeping blood. Nothing serious, but the salt water made them sting. Strapped across his chest was a mound of gray fabric, tied together with strings. There was more of it behind his head, like some kind of soggy parka. He somehow knew that it was a life jacket, but it was soaked and much too heavy now to be of any use. He decided that he needed to get this thing off. He began working on the strings, first the chest, and then two more straps that went around his upper legs. He got one undone and then had to lie back and rest. His head was pounding now and the first rays of real sunlight had begun to assault his eyes. The surf kept up its monotonous drumbeat on one side, but that black sand beach, maybe a hundred yards away, was deathly silent. He wondered if there was anyone there, just inside that line of jungle, watching him.
Then he felt the water on the sea side swelling up, lifting him off his bed of razors and rolling him into the lagoon like a rotten log. He went under and flailed to get his head out of the water. He couldn’t swim with that damned lifejacket half on, half off, but suddenly realized he could stand. The coral under his bare feet hurt like hell, but it was better than drowning. And where were his shoes? Why was he even here? Trying to ignore the walking-on-needles sensation from his feet, he lurched into a standing position and began making his way to that menacing black sand beach. The water got deeper and deeper until he finally had to launch himself into an awkward dog paddle toward the shore. At least the coral had stopped cutting his feet to ribbons.
It took forever but he finally made it to the shallows. He could smell the jungle now, wet, muddy, rotten. The beach didn’t slope out into the lagoon in some gentle incline, but rose steeply, so much so that he tripped and fell headlong onto the edges of the sand, still half in, half out of the water. That excursion hurt his head so much that he began to retch, driven by waves of nausea that were gripping his innards like iron claws. He spat up what tasted mostly like salt water and watched a tiny crab scuttling away in total disgust. He lay there on his side now, the already warm sand inviting him to go back down again, to rest, to sleep, to make this all go away. The lumpy life jacket, which was still half on, half off, pressed up against his stomach like a comforter. The sun was warm. The sand under his right forearm was warm.
Ought to get up, he thought. What for, his brain asked. Let’s caulk off for a while, give everything a much-needed rest. Then he drifted off, still trying to come up with an answer.
Sometime later he felt something biting him again, only this time it was a real bite, clamping down, tugging even. He opened his eyes and saw a small, multicolored fish nibbling on his exposed ankle. He sat up and swatted at the water. As he did, he heard two loud yells from behind him. He looked around to see two sets of dark brown elbows and heels disappearing into the bushes at the top of the beach. His head still hurt and now he was really thirsty. Water, water everywhere, he remembered. Now: What’s my name?
Time to get out of the water, he thought. He rolled onto his hands and knees and moved up the surprisingly steep edge to dry sand. He sat for a moment and then began to try to get the soggy life jacket off. It was much harder than it should have been, he thought, as his rubbery fingers struggled with those strings. Finally he succeeded, and pushed the waterlogged lump of fabric to one side. There was black lettering stenciled on the back: CMDRE, whatever that meant. He was still wearing a long-sleeved khaki shirt, khaki trousers, black socks, and the top portion of one seaboot. There were large, dark stains on his right sleeve and shoulder. His back hurt, as if he’d done a reverse belly flop at some time. He raised his hand to the right side of his head. It felt a bit pulpy, like the shell of a turtle he’d once broken as a juvenile delinquent.
When was that? Where had that happened?
He thought he heard rustling in the bushes and looked over to see two sets of black eyes staring at him from the undergrowth.
“Hey,” he called. “You got water?”
The eyes disappeared, but then, a moment later, two almost naked Melanesians stepped out of the bushes and approached, carefully. They seemed to be fascinated with his face. Or was it his head? Was it that bad? Brains leaking out?
He lay back onto the sand. He remembered—what? Something. An image, but it was gone. He realized he’d closed his eyes again. He opened them to find the two men kneeling next to him now, their faces close enough for him to smell them. They gave off an odor of greenery, tobacco, and what—seaweed? Smoked fish? Interesting. He made a drinking motion with his hand.
“Water?” he croaked.
They looked at each other, stood up, and backed away. As one turned to go back into the jungle, the other, the older of the two, based on his gray hair, nodded at him.
“By’m by,” he said in a singsong voice. “Come along watah.”
Then they were gone. He dozed.
When he woke up again, the sun had shifted and it was probably early afternoon. He looked out to sea and saw some distant green mountains on the horizon. They seemed to float above the sea, bright green on top, then changing to a purplish hue lower down before disappearing into a gray mist at the bottom. Beautiful, he thought. This looked like the South Seas pictures he’d seen—where? He forced himself to relax on the sand, resting his right cheek on a small mound. His arms and legs seemed to work. He could wiggle both his toes and fingers. Something was moving toward him about two feet away from his face. He tried to focus but for some reason it was really hard to do that. Then he got it: another crab, a little bigger one this time.
He wiggled his fingers again, just a little, and the crab stopped. He lifted his fingers like a tarantula leaning back on its hind legs and the crab backed up, then rose into its own very similar defensive position, claws aloft, moist little mandibles working to determine whether this was dinner or danger. He slowly cupped a small handful of sand in his right hand and then threw it at the crab, saying: Boo! The crab fled. He repositioned his head. Big mistake. A lightning bolt went down the right side of his neck and out into the sand through his right shoulder. He gasped as he passed out again. Stay away, crab, he thought, as one of those distant green mountains blossomed into a large cloud that came across the sea and covered him right up.
“He’s a Yank,” a woman’s voice said, just as clear as a bell. He tried to open his eyes but they were stuck shut, as if his eyelashes had been glued. He tried to sit up but she made a shushing sound, pressing on his chest to make him lie back. Then he felt a metal cup pressing to his lips, fresh water slopping onto his jaw, and he drank greedily.
“Slow down, now, mate, slow down,” she said. He did not slow down. She withdrew the cup long enough for him to clear his throat. “Take your time, Buck-o. You’ve had a nasty whack, for sure. Who are you, and where’d you come from?”
“No idea,” he croaked. She had an accent—Brit? Aussie? The effort to figure out which one was just too painful. He tried to open his eyes again, but there was
a crust of salt on them. She poured a little of the water on his eyelids and then he was able to see her.
“I believe that,” she said, gazing at his head wound.
He felt a wet cloth pressing up against his battered head. It felt good as long as she didn’t actually move the cloth. He tried to tell her that, but then heard her saying something like, Ah, damn, there he goes again. Poor fella. Altogether, bring’im house b’long me.
TWENTY-TWO
Lever Brothers Plantation, Kalai Island
He awoke to the sound of rain pounding on a metal roof with a roar that sounded like a load of gravel being dumped. He was able to open his eyes and look around. He was in a bedroom, which had one large window aperture but no glass. The bed was enveloped in a mosquito net and was very comfortable. He guessed by the pallor of the light outside that it was either dawn or dusk. There were a pitcher and a glass next to the bed on a nightstand. He blinked his eyes a couple of times, took a deep breath, and tried to sit up. A familiar lance of pain shot from the right side of his head down his right shoulder and arm, severe enough to make him cry out.
He lay back and closed his eyes for a moment until the pain subsided into a dull ache. Where am I? Who am I? What am I doing here? He realized he was naked in the bed. His body felt clean, which was to say no longer covered in salt and the stink of marine life. Coral. Crabs.
Marine life: he’d been in the sea, and then wedged up on a reef covered in teeth. And then on a black-sand beach, where strange-looking natives peering out of the jungle had been frightened out of their wits when he sat up and looked at them. Didn’t they know he was the commodore?
Then it came rushing back. All of it.
The sudden appearance of heavy cruisers. His flagship, Barrett, toe-to-toe with eight-inch guns and torpedoes slashing past each other, Barrett’s banging off the sides of the bigger Jap ships, theirs … well, theirs tearing his flagship into two pieces with such power that the back half of the ship had driven right past the capsizing front half. A melee, for damn sure. He took a deep breath. He’d laid the same ambush one too many times. The Japs had figured it out and laid one for him. Oh, God, where are my ships? Did they get away?
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