Firestorm

by Anderson, Taylor

  His vision was clearing, and other sounds began penetrating the incessant noise inside his head. He commenced a rapid inventory of all the new aches and pains he felt, but decided nothing was broken. Looking at himself, he saw that he was spattered with blood, but except for a few small tears in his clothing, he thought he must be okay. Most of the blood had to be somebody else’s. He suddenly realized the sky was empty because the mainmast had snapped off just below the top, taking the main yard and everything above over the side. Tangled stays and shrouds stretched taut across the deck, and the bulwarks on either side were smashed. Even as he watched, bloodied, disheveled Lemurian sailors hacked at cables, and each one parted with a sound like a rifle shot. The ship beneath him wallowed uncomfortably in the uneven swells, and there was a great grinding, pounding in the fibers of the deck from the shattered mast working alongside.

  Glancing farther forward, he saw that the foremast was gone completely, snapped off at the deck of the forecastle, and its remains had already been cleared away. Looking around with increased urgency, he realized that only the bowsprit and mizzenmast still stood intact. A great many bodies lay scattered on deck, some moving, others not, and the pitiful cries of the wounded began to seep through the ringing buzz. The surgeon was on deck, along with Marine corpsmen and pharmacist’s mates, moving from one prone figure to the next. Some they quickly inspected before moving on, and others they had carried below to the wardroom. What had been a taut, beautiful, well-run ship had suddenly become a scene of devastation and chaos.

  “Mr. Garrett! Thank God!” he finally heard Clancy say. “I thought you were a goner when I first laid eyes on you.”

  “What happened?” Greg asked. It may not have been the most original phrase uder the circumstances, but right then, it was the most appropriate.

  “I’m not sure, sir. I was belowdecks in the wireless shack when I heard this god-awful, humongous boom—and something hammered the ship. I came up here”—Clancy gestured around—“and seen all this! Jesus! One fella I ran into told me those Grik ships, all eight of ’em, just blew the hell up! All at once! My God, the only way they could’ve done it like that, simultaneously, is electrically! Electrically!” he repeated. “No fuse would’ve worked. They’d have gone up like a fireworks show, not all at once. And they couldn’t have done near as much damage that way. I swear.” He shook his head.

  “How about Tolson?” Greg asked, managing to stand with Clancy’s help.

  Clancy pointed. “Hell, sir, she looks worse than us. Lost every stick.”

  Garrett saw Tolson, completely dismasted, wallowing helplessly to leeward, surrounded by a sea of floating debris. Revenge was standing by her, apparently undamaged, trying to rig a towline. “Where’s Saaran?” he asked.

  “In the wardroom,” Clancy said. “Looks like he’s maybe got a concussion. Something conked him on the head. Caught some splinters too. You’re lucky, Skipper. Smitty was with you when I came on deck, but the surgeon said you ought to come around soon, and Smitty took off to help with damage control. You were out about twenty minutes.”

  “Do we have communications?” Garrett demanded.

  “Yes, sir. One of my strikers just reported. We can’t get Tolson, or at least they can’t respond, but we’ve got Revenge.” Clancy shrugged. “Our wireless aerial’s on the mizzen, and it’s still mostly in one piece.”

  “Okay,” said Garrett, shaking off Clancy’s supporting hand. “Tell Revenge she’ll have to try to tow us both. Then get a message off to HQ; tell them what happened . . . and they might want to kind of expect a call for assistance.” He smirked. “Like there’s anything they can do about it. As far as I know, there’s not another Allied ship for five hundred miles!”

  “Maybe they’re doing another coast recon of the proposed LZs?” Clancy speculated.

  “Maybe . . . and we wouldn’t know it either. They won’t make a peep in case the Japs have helped the Grik come up with a transmission direction finder of some sort,” Greg fumed. “Let’s just hope we won’t need any assistance Revenge can’t give us!” He paused. “Thanks, Clance. You get back to the radio shack and keep your ears open.”

  The new steam frigate passed a heavy cable to Tolson and eventually, carefully picking her way through the raft of floating chunks of eight entire ships, pulled Russ’s derelict close to Donaghey. In the meantime, much to Greg’s relief, Smitty and the ’Cat carpenter reported that his ship’s leaks were under control. Most were caused by the pressure of the blast-opened seams, but some were made by pieces of Grik ships striking at high velocity. A bowsprit had speared Donaghey like a harpoon amidships. Garrett’s ship would float, but she’d lost a lot of people. All the Marines in the tops, for example, had gone over the side. With so many predators in the sea, their deaths had probably been quicker than drowning—if even more horrifying. Almost a third of the crewfolk and Marines exposed on deck were dead or wounded.

  Garrett saw Russ near Tolson’s stern, a bloody rag around his head, directing a detail preparing to send or receiv a cable. Greg already had a similar party waiting in his ship’s fo’c’sle. He raised a speaking trumpet. “Are you okay, Mr. Chapelle?”

  “I’m fine,” Russ replied. “My ship ain’t,” he added bitterly. Bloody water gushed down Tolson’s sides from the scuppers, her pumps working hard. “We’re staying ahead of the flooding, though.” He paused. “If you don’t mind my saying, Donaghey looks like a porcupine.” It was true. Greg had peered over the port side and was amazed by the number of timbers and splinters sticking in his ship. “I bet you could build another whole ship out of all that junk!”

  “I promise not to throw any of it away, then,” Greg countered. “You might need it.”

  “You said it,” Russ shouted back ruefully.

  They eventually passed a cable from Donaghey to Tolson, and when it was secure, Revenge took up the slack on both ships. Slowly, they began to move, gaining speed, and settling on a southwesterly course at about five knots. Garrett glanced back at the debris-strewn sea. The dead mountain fish still lay, a mile or more astern, huge and seemingly as invulnerable as an island, yet the sea around its wallowing corpse was stained red, and predators—gri-kakka, “super sharks,” and flashies in their countless multitudes—churned along its flanks. He looked to the northeast, toward whatever port the eight Grik ships had put out from. He could still barely believe it. The enemy had executed a carefully, redundantly planned operation to break the blockade, and it had worked. Every time the allies thought they had the Grik down, the damn things pulled some crazy stunt that stood all their preconceptions on their heads. Granted, they were dealing with some “civilian” Grik now, but how much difference should that make? Something had changed; something fundamental. He sighed. Well, that happens in war, he supposed. He only wished he and Donaghey weren’t always on the receiving end of these discoveries. He took some comfort from one fact, however. The allies had changed too. No Grik in the coming campaign against Ceylon and India could have any notion of the new Allied equipment and tactics. Hopefully, they’d be basing whatever preparations they were making on the capabilities they’d seen at the Battle of Baalkpan. They too would be surprised.

  Massive sharks and a few gri-kakka shadowed the wounded train. It must have been the bloody water trailing behind that drew their attention. Slowly, as the trickle decreased and diluted, most veered away, back to where they knew an endless meal awaited—but a few continued dogging them. One massive creature, bigger than any shark had a right to be, with a fin as high as a killer whale’s, cruised effortlessly past Donaghey , just under the surface. Its back was a mottled grayish blue-black, and while maybe a quarter Donaghey’s length, it looked nearly as broad. Garrett suppressed a shudder. In a moment, the fish was gone, outpacing them, apparently intent on examining the other ships forward. Saaran appeared on deck, a bulky wrap around his head, and glistening smears of the curative “polta paste” applied here and there across his chest and shoulder.

  “What
’re you doing here?” Garrett asked. “You look like hell.”

  “Doc Miller told me not to sleep,” he said. “If I work, I won’t sleep.”

  Garrett grunted. “Okay. If you’re determined to run around, see if you can put a detail together to sway up a new main-topmast and a few yards. Get some sail on her.” The mizzen looked okay, but the remnant of the mainmast didn’t have much support left. “We’ll have to rerig the shrouds and ys as well. See if we can do anything to get a new foremast stepped.” He looked around. “I don’t know what we’ll use. . . . Anyway, Revenge’ll have enough worries dragging just one ship behind her.” Suddenly, Donaghey seemed to slow, and Tolson began to slew to starboard. “What the devil?” As Garrett watched, Tolson continued turning, until she was almost beam-on to the following Donaghey.

  “Hard a’port!” Garrett cried, hoping they had enough steerageway to miss the other ship. At the moment, they were aimed directly at her, amidships.

  “Hard a’port, ay!” replied the helmsman. Slowly, slowly, Donaghey wallowed left, edging more and more aft of her sister. It still looked as if they might hit her in the stern, and everyone tensed, expecting an impact. Somehow, they managed to clear the other ship, but only by a few feet. Garrett shouted across to Chapelle. “What’s going on?”

  “Beats me,” came the wind-muffled reply. “Revenge just stopped all of a sudden! I don’t know what’s up! We had to turn to keep from hitting her, just as you did!”

  Clancy ran up the companionway. “Skipper,” he cried, “something hit Revenge! She’s taking water aft!”

  “What? What hit her?” Greg demanded.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think they do yet. That’s all I got so far.”

  “Well . . . get back down there and find out!”

  “Aye, aye, sir!”

  Garrett could see Revenge now, as Donaghey eased past Tolson. The steamer looked odd, dead in the water, and low by the stern. Before long, the tow cable grew taut, and Donaghey began to turn to starboard, pulled around by her attachment to Tolson. To Greg’s amazement, he saw boats starting to slide down Revenge’s quarter davits into the sea. “What . . . ?”

  Clancy ran back on deck. “Skipper!” he said, shock in his voice. “Cap’n Barry has broadcast a distress signal! He says something ate his ship’s screw! With it all new and shiny, he thinks something hit it like a Heddon Zig Wag lure! His words. They didn’t see what did it, but there’s blood in the water aft. Anyway, her shaft is warped all to hell, and the packing and all the support timbers were shattered before they managed to secure! He—he says whatever happened, it couldn’t have been much worse if they’d taken a Jap torpedo in the ass, and they can’t stop the flooding!”

  With a tight chest, Garrett suddenly remembered the huge shark he’d seen. He’d often wondered what some giant denizen might think of a ship’s turning propeller—especially when it hadn’t yet turned dingy and green.... “What can we do?” he asked.

  “Well, Pruit—I mean Cap’n Barry—asks if we can stand by to take his crew aboard—us and Tolson.”

  “My God. We’re going to lose Revenge? He’s sure?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir.”

  Greg thought fast, considering the wind and current. The tightness in his chest became a vise around his heart. “Tell Revenge we’ll stand by and any boats we have in one piece’ll be over as soon as we can send them.” He paused. “Tell him also that we’re going to need every musket and every last round of ammunition they have time to save. Make sure he understands that. Bring every single weapon he can grab! Make sure HQ knows what’s going on”

  “Aye, sir,” replied Clancy, looking at him strangely.

  Garrett pointed at the distant coast of Ceylon. “Don’t you get it?” He laughed, the slightest hint of hysteria in his voice. “If we can’t get enough sail on this wreck, this ship and Tolson both are going to wind up on the beach . . . over there! It looks like the invasion of Ceylon may start a little early.” He turned to Saaran. “Of course, our invasion’ll be like dropping a bug with no legs right in the middle of an ant mound!”

  Not a soul was lost when Revenge finally went down. The semiwater-tight, compartmentalized design kept her afloat longer than anyone had a right to expect, and not only was the entire crew saved and distributed between the other two ships, but all the small arms, ammunition, and a large percentage of her other supplies were salvaged as well. Captain Barry came aboard Donaghey with a little less than half his crew—Tolson needed the extra hands more—and he was horrified by the loss of his brand-new, beautiful ship. All he could do was stand by the quarterdeck rail, knuckles clenched white, and watch while Revenge slid under the sea by the stern.

  “God!” he gasped when the waves closed over the stars and stripes still fluttering at the masthead, and he burst into tears.

  “I’m awful sorry, Pruit,” Garrett said, a little uncomfortably. He could imagine how the other man felt, but couldn’t stand to see him bawling like that. “Come on, pull yourself together. We’ve got to sort out this mess and get your guys working with mine to bend as much canvas as we can. The current’s running strong and the wind’s picking up out of the southwest. We’ll lose everything and everybody if we can’t claw away from that shore.” He pointed at the coast of Ceylon, growing noticeably closer. Barry wiped his face on his sleeve and nodded.

  “You bet,” he said roughly. “I’ll do whatever I can. So will my guys.”

  “Thanks, Pruit. Let’s see if we can get them helping out with the divisions they’re accustomed to.” He nodded toward Tolson, wallowing aft. “And not only do we have to save this ship, but we’ve got to save her too. She doesn’t even have anything left to jury-rig.”

  Barry nodded, looking at the repairs already completed. So far, Donaghey had close to a full spread on her mizzen, a course on the main, and a pair of staysails rigged to the bowsprit. Alone, it wasn’t enough to keep Donaghey off the beach. “Okay,” he said. “My exec went to Tolson, but I’ve got my bosun and a lieutenant. How can we help?”

  By nightfall, Donaghey had a new main-topmast, a topsail, and another staysail rigged. The repairs had been unbelievably perilous, with the ship pitching and wallowing in the mounting seas. There’d been injuries, but amazingly, no one was killed or lost over the side. Still, their last glimpse of Ceylon before it was swallowed by the gloom showed it disconcertingly close—less than ten miles away, according to Smitty’s best guess. Garrett’s long experience at estimating ranges as a gunnery officer put it at just over eight. The wind continued stiffening, and the sea grew more determined to break the battered ships. On Tolson, Chapelle was pushing his crew to the breaking point, rigging a pair of short masts out of spare topmasts, but the only canvas she had yet was a shortened course and a couple of staysails. It took a little strain off Donaghey, but the staysails on both ships, while necessary, were pushing them farther to leeward—ever closer to shore.

  Together in the wardroom, beneath the light of a swaying lantern, Garrett and Saaran scrutinized the charts they’d worked so hard on, throughout their deployment. With sinking hearts, they realized that no matter how they calculated it, Donaghey couldn’t clear the southern coast of Ceylon with Tolson in tow. Realistically, it was almost certainly too late for Donaghey to make it alone.

  “So that’s it,” Garrett said as quietly as he could over the wind, the tumult of labor on deck, and the increasing noises of the working ship. He took a deep breath and looked at Saaran almost helplessly. “What now?”

  Saaran scratched the fur on his forehead. “The sea is rising, and so is the tide. If we have no choice but to run ashore, perhaps we can choose where we do it.”

  “What difference will that make?”

  “If we are not forced ashore among jagged rocks, but drive ashore at high tide, on a soft, sandy beach . . .”

  “We let the wind and heavy sea carry us as far up on the beach as it can,” Garrett interrupted with dawning hope.

  “Yes,” Saaran con
tinued, “and the flashies will not be active in the nighttime shallows, particularly with the sea running high.”

  Greg nodded. “If the ships don’t break, and we make it until low tide, we off-load the ship’s guns, supplies . . . If we fort up, maybe make it to some better ground . . . we might have a chance.”

  “A slim chance,” Saaran agreed, “if we can hold until rescued.” He met Garrett’s eyes and blinked determination. “And if we can’t hold that long . . . at least we will die killing Grik.” Saaran coughed a laugh. “We may be a bug with no legs falling in an ant mound, but we do still have our teeth!”

  Greg blinked back in the Lemurian way. “Pass the word. We’ll have to coordinate with Russ on Tolson; keep our ships as close together as we can, when we make our run in.” He sighed. “I’d better get Clancy to inform HQ.” He smiled and shook his head. “God help us.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Aboard USNRS (United States Naval Reserve Ship) Salissa (CV-1) First Fleet HQ, Andaman Island

  Pete Alden, once a sergeant in doomed USS Houston’s Marine contingent on another earth, and now General of the Marines and All Allied Armies, looked at the message form in his hand with a sick, sinking feeling. It had been given him by an intensely staring, silver-shot, brownish red Lemurian, who sat perched on a decorative stool like a brooding bear, his long tail swishing in agitation behind him. The Lemurian was “Ahd-mi-raal” Keje-Fris-Ar, overall commander of First Fleet, and all Allied forces in the West, or CINCWEST. Keje had grown more (outwardly, at least) unflappable as the war went on, but he was clearly concerned about the contents of the message.