by Tom Kratman
* * *
For a nonagenarian, Kurita was fast on his feet. Perhaps it was that, unlike most human beings, there was just no mechanism in him to give in to frailty or pain. Whichever the case, he was down on third deck, as close as he could get to the fire, within moments of leaving the bridge.
Many men, burned, broken, and bleeding, sat quietly against bulkheads or crawled from the consuming flames. Others, caught in the blaze, screamed like children. Of the former, Kurita thought, Brave boys. I am so proud of you. Of the latter, generously he thought, In extremity even a samurai might scream. And death by fire is extreme.
A fire-suited damage control party from another section of the ship arrived, just as Kurita did, its centurion reporting to the Yamatan.
"There is not enough room for all your people here, Centurion," Kurita said. "Use half to fight the fire. Have the other half carry off the wounded to clear the way."
The smoke wasn't bad, yet, but it was bad enough. Coughing, Kurita grabbed a SCBA, a Self Contained Breathing Apparatus mask, from a dispenser and put it on. It would interfere with giving commands, but continued inhalation of the smoke was likely to make him far too dead to give commands.
The problem, though, is that it is hard to tell how much of this smoke is from fire and how much from the initial explosion. Are the fuel lines breached? We have power. Is the air circulation system feeding oxygen to the flames? Has the fire breached the hangar deck fire curtains to either side of the rear elevator?
The only way to determine the answers was to look. Kurita lightly felt the near surface of a hatch that led to a balcony overlooking the hangar deck. Not too bad. I wish the design had included a window. I must advise this to Fosa-san as soon as possible.
He opened the hatch and stuck his head out. His first thought was Thank God the curtain was not breached. Further inspection, however, showed that it was breached higher up. Thus, while no burning fuel was racing across the deck, hot smoke was oozing over and through the rent in the fire curtain's fabric. This was bad enough but what his eyes lit on next was actually enough to set his heart to racing.
Kurita lifted his mask and shouted, "Centurion, have your men stop work on the wounded! There is ordnance on the hangar deck and it MUST BE REMOVED!"
Then the deck lurched, knocking Kurita once again from his feet and slamming his head against a bulkhead. For a few moments he lost consciousness.
* * *
While the upward lurch of the deck threw Kurita from his feet, at the bridge the motion was much less. Fosa retained his footing, as did almost every man of the bridge crew. What he saw, though, when he looked at the engineering panel—a sudden Christmas tree of red and amber lights—made his heart sink.
Dead in the water. Shit . . . DEAD . . . in the water.
Fosa looked forward and saw that, thank God for small blessings, the Dos Lindas was at least not headed to land. It should, he crudely calculated, have lost all forward motion before there was a risk of grounding.
And when the corvettes get here, they can tow us a bit. Maybe it's not hopeless.
Fosa looked portward and saw a Finch diving on something he couldn't see for the flight deck. The Finch had all guns blazing. He saw it cease fire and pull up just before yet another massive explosion took place off the port side.
Indeed, maybe it's not hopeless.
MV Hoogaboom
Somewhere, deep in his heart, in a place he probably never would have admitted existed, the captain had hoped that the combination of torpedoes, suicide boats, and cruise missiles would destroy the enemy ship before he had to destroy himself and his own ship.
Yet reports broadcast from observers ashore were clear. The ship was aflame at one quarter, it had been hit at least twice, it was stopped dead in the water, drifting but powerless. But it was not sinking, nor even listing, and its combination of light cannon, lasers, machine guns and aircraft were making short work of the suicide boats that, again, deep at heart, the captain had half expected to hull the carrier.
One good bit of news, for certain values of good, was that the enemy ship was slowly turning to present its side to the Hoogaboom.
At least we will be certain to succeed, attacking at this angle with a helpless target. If self immolation is difficult, and it is, the captain thought, how much more difficult to do so without the certainty of success?
"All ahead full," he ordered. "Auxiliary crews to the patrol boats. Lower the patrol boats as they're manned. And commend your souls to Allah."
As the captain gave the order, the Tauran slave girls, gifts of Abdul Aziz and Mustafa, began to scream and cry. No sense in keeping their little hearts in fear, the captain thought.
"Go below," he ordered to a seaman standing nearby. "Take a rifle. Kill the slaves."
Santisima Trinidad
The forward forty-millimeter and three of the starboard side tri-barrel .41s spat death at a speedboat winding its way through the smoke in the air and the wreckage floating on the water. With all the surface turbulence—the result not just of natural waves but of the explosions that had churned the water—marksmanship left something to be desired. Even so, the men had adopted the simple expedient of beginning their fire low and letting the boat rock it upward.
The target boat was a flaming mess, with blood running out the gunnels. That was no reason to cease fire until the thing . . .
Kaboom.
A dark curtain of wind-borne smoke closed down around the Trinidad and the falling debris of its late target. Pedraz looked around for some recognizable landmark, without success. Then a sudden gust of wind tore apart the smoky curtain and he caught sight of the carrier.
Is there less fire and smoke now? Hard to tell. I can only hope . . .
But there is fire, and then there is "FIRE!" The side of the carrier, so much as was visible, erupted in blossoms of flame as the machine guns and light cannon, catching sudden sight of the Trinidad and not quite recognizing it, opened up.
"KeerIST!" Pedraz jammed the throttle forward and sprang back into the smoke. A quick glance behind him—very quick, under the circumstances—told him that the carrier's gun crews were following and walking—sprinting, really—their fire to where they thought the boat was heading. He jerked the wheel to change course.
"Dos Lindas, this is Trinidad. Have we offended you in some way?!?!?!"
BdL Dos Lindas
Kurita bent to one side and pulled his mask away to vomit. The blow to his head had given him a mild concussion and nausea had swiftly followed. He replaced the mask in time to see another group of damage control people, about a dozen of them, materialize on the hangar deck. Reseating the mask to get a breath of non-fatal air, he again pulled it away to shout down below, "Get the foam system into operation!"
The chief of that damage control party looked up at Kurita, recognizing him both by his short stature and his sword, and waved acknowledgment. He and his men split into two groups and immediately ran for the wound hoses at the forward corners of the hangar deck. These they took and began to drag to the stern. As they did so, men, individually and in small groups passed them by, carrying or dragging machine gun ammunition, rockets and bombs away from the fire.
Ideally, they'd simply have dumped the stuff over the side. Unfortunately, the hangar deck didn't really have a portal for that, a clear design flaw. Rather, it did have one, but that was very new and rather on fire at the moment.
"Drop it here. Drop. It. Here." The chief of the damage control party shouted to the ordnance carriers. They looked at him, not quite understanding, until he pointed at the nozzle of the foam hose he carried. Mental lights came on. They began making a pile, more or less carefully, of the ordnance they carried. As soon as there was enough of a pile the chief turned the hose on it and began to cover it with a thick layer of fireproof, and cooling, foam. More ordnance, and more foam, added to the pile.
Above, Kurita saw the foamed pile grow and began to breathe a sigh of relief. He never quite got the sigh out, how
ever, as another wave of nausea overtook him, causing him, once again, to doff the mask, bend over, and hurl.
* * *
Sick at heart over the harm done to his ship and crew, Fosa peered desperately through the thick smoke of ship's fire, jungle fire, and explosion. Tracer still lanced out in mass, all around the boundaries of the ship, before they disappeared into the smoke.
Fosa heard the radio loudspeaker ask, "Have we offended you in some way?" He picked up the microphone and asked, 'What the fuck are you talking about, Trinidad?
"Your gunners are shooting at anything they spy," came the answer. "They engaged us . . . tried to anyway."
"Roger," Fosa answered. "I'll see to it." Before he could give an order he heard one of the bridge crew screaming into another microphone, one that serviced the ship's intercom, "You assholes nearly sunk one of ours. Identify your targets carefully. Dumb-asses."
Once again, smoke swirled around the tower, blocking Fosa's view. He said, "Order Agustin and Trinidad out past our cannon and machine gun range."
PTF Santisima Trinidad
For now, Pedraz was keeping inside the smoke. Later, when he was reasonably sure that he was out of range, or at least far enough away that the carrier wouldn't mistake his boat for a threat, he'd emerge into the open. For now, he and his men were on a definite post-adrenaline let down and would just as soon ride that out.
"Did we win, Chief?" Francés asked.
"Win? What's a win," Pedraz answered, sadly and quietly. "Dos Lindas is still there, after they threw everything they had at it. I guess that's a win. Though I don't know if she'll ever fight again."
"She will," Francés answered, as if sure. "As long as she floats and has a crew, she can be repaired."
Suddenly, without warning, the Trinidad emerged into the clear. Francés pointed and asked, "Skipper, what's that doing here?"
MV Hoogaboom
The Tauran slave girls were crying or screaming anymore. Neither were there any klaxons or alarms. Instead, "All hands to battle station," announced the captain, through the ship's intercom. Then he and his own bridge crew retired below to the armored CIC. From there, they'd direct the ship via video camera and remote control. There were redundant systems for both.
Down in CIC a mullah, one of the very few willing to die the same way they encouraged others to die, spoke into a microphone. His words were carried to small speakers all over the ship, and especially to the individual fighting compartments where the mujahadin waited by their machine guns to fight, if necessary, for the right to destroy the warship of the wicked.
"No doubt it is a clear honor," said the mullah, "a clear honor which Allah has bestowed on us. Honor on us; honor to us. He will give us blessing and great victory, now, and by the acts of the faithful inspired by us, in the future.
"Across this world, this is what everyone is hoping for. Thank Allah that the Federated States came out of their caves. Those who came and fell before us hit her the first. Now we shall hit her lackeys, those wicked and faithless ones, with the strong hands of true believers.
"By Allah, this is a great work. Allah prepares for you a great reward for this work. By Allah, who there is no god besides, my brothers, we shall live in happiness, happiness such as we have never before experienced.
"Remember, the words of Mustafa, the great and pious. He said they made a coalition against us in the winter with the infidels. And they surrounded us as in the days of the prophet Muhammad. This is exactly like what has been happening recently, with the faithless and the apostates turning on the One True God. But the Prophet, peace be upon him, comforted his followers and said, 'This is going to turn and hit them back.' As we are hitting back, my brothers."
The mullah noticed the arrival of the captain and stopped speaking. "Would you like to address the crew?" he asked.
"No, holy man. My words are small things against the great words of Allah, and of his messengers, and of those who teach the faithful. Please, continue with this sermon.
Nodding, the mullah went back to his microphone and continued, "And it is a mercy for us and a blessing upon us. It will bring people back. And Allah will pour upon us blessings untold. And the day will come when the symbols of Islam will rise up and it will be similar to the early days of the Salafi, back on Old Earth. And victory shall be upon the sons of the Prophet . . . "
BdL Dos Lindas
"Dos Lindas, this is Trinidad. I've got a ship, a smallish freighter, maybe five thousand tons, maybe six, heading towards you. Considering what we've just been through . . . "
Fosa picked up the microphone and asked, "Can you see the name?"
The speaker crackled back, "Hoogaboom, it says."
"Didn't we warn her off?" Fosa asked aloud.
"We did, Skipper," answered a radio man. "About thirty seconds after the attack started."
Radar spoke up. "Captain, I wasn't paying close attention, but I don't recall them coming to a stop before we lost radar. I mean . . . "
"It would have taken a while for them to have come to a stop," Fosa finished. "I understand. But it wouldn't have taken this long."
It could just be a mistake . . . but what are the odds? What are the odds when you factor in the very complex ambush they set for us here? And then . . . oh shit, they never touched the pork.
Fosa's voice was just short of panic. "Trinidad, Agustin, STOP THAT SHIP!"
* * *
So far, so good, thought Kurita. Though the smoke was still atrocious and the heat almost unbearable, the fires were under control and there had been no more secondary explosions. He knew, from long years at sea, that the ship was drifting without power. That could be fixed and, so long as the carrier didn't sink, would be, he was sure.
The damage control and firefighting efforts had reach past the twenty foot gaping hole in the hull blasted by the cruise missile. Resting against this while waiting for another bout of vomiting to claim him, Kurita saw the outline of a freighter, bearing down on the immobile Dos Lindas.
He heard the loudspeakers proclaim, in Fosa's voice, "Surface action, Port. Surface action, Port. We're not out of this yet, boys. On the port side is a ship . . . I think it intends to ram us. Surface action, Port. All guns: engage."
Kurita looked around, thinking, Things are under control here; nothing the centurions can't handle, surely. Let's go see to the guns. They lost some crew to the missile attack, I'm sure.
PTF Santisima Trinidad
Clavell and Guptillo worked their gun furiously, sheltering behind the mantlet at the heavy return machine gun fire from the ship. The Trinidad's own machine guns returned fire, of course, but seemed to be having absolutely no effect.
"Shit," cursed Clavell. He keyed his microphone and told Pedraz, "Skipper, we're hitting the thing, easily, and penetrating it, too. I can see the shells going off inside. But they're having no effect that I can see."
Pedraz was about to respond when a sudden flurry of fire burst from the Dos Lindas. He followed the tracers to where they impacted on the bow of the Hoogaboom. It was being chewed apart; that much was clear from the pieces of hull sloughing off under the fire. But beyond that? Nothing.
Machine gun fire raked out from the Hoogaboom, sweeping Trinidad's deck. Most of the crew was under reasonable cover. Not so, the machine gunners, and notably Santiona who was the target. With a scream, he went down, minus his legs and with the stumps gushing blood.
Without being told to, the ship's corpsman raced out from under cover and began tourniqueting off the wounded Santiona's stumps.
Hmmm . . . even the forty isn't doing shit to the ship. Hmmm . . .
"Clavell, target that ship's machine gunners."
God, why the fuck didn't we mount torpedoes on this thing? We're a fucking Patrol Torpedo Fast and we don't have torpedoes? Shit.
MV Hoogaboom
Deep in his steel cocoon, Hoogaboom's captain thought, Thank Allah they don't have torpedoes. If they did, we'd be lost. For that matter, thank you, Almighty, that no
ne of their aircraft were carrying, or got off with, any large bombs.
Overhead the captain heard what he thought must be aerial rockets smashing the upper deck. No matter; those can't penetrate. He looked at the screen tied in to the forward cameras. It was in this that the enemy ship was in view. There on the screen, the image amplified, a short man pointing with a sword directed the futile fire coming at Hoogaboom's bow. The captain laughed. Maybe if you had a couple of days to chew through, it might do some good, he thought. But you have mere minutes.
* * *
That worked, thought Pedraz, looking over the smoking holes in the enemy ship created by the forty, but it didn't buy us much.
