The panic created by the ferocity and total surprise of the attack was complete, at least on the nearest ships. A few cut their cables and tried to make sail, but most were too shocked even for that and they died under the bright glare of the stabbing searchlight or burned to death when their ships went up like piles of dried leaves. And then the battle line struck and the destruction took on a less frenzied but more methodical pace as the larger ships delivered broadside after broadside at point-blank range. Walker dashed on, zigzagging through the densely packed forest of masts and hammering anything her guns would bear upon.
“Ahead slow!” Matt yelled from the starboard wing. “Come right twenty degrees!” A Grik ship, sails flapping, had run afoul of its neighbor in its haste to escape, and now the two of them blocked the channel that led to Revenge. Beyond the snarl, Matt saw the ship with the blue lights pounding enemies on either side.
“Captain Reddy!” Bradford shouted, pointing. Another ship loomed in the darkness to starboard and Walker’s knife-sharp bow was swinging directly for it.
“All stop! Full astern. Left full rudder!”
The ship groaned in protest, the strakes vibrating violently beneath Matt’s feet as the turbines were reversed and the screws bit deep to arrest the forward inertia. The gunners on the fo’c’sle stopped firing for a moment and watched as Walker’s bull nose swung ever so slowly away from the collision that had seemed imminent. Matt watched too, mesmerized, his knuckles turning white as he clutched the rail. Ponderously, his ship slowed to a stop less than a dozen feet from the enemy’s head-rails. Grik stood watching, from a pistol shot’s distance, equally horrified. But not for long. As soon as they saw the collision had been avoided, they sprang into action. Crossbow bolts thumped against Walker’s plates, gouging the paint and ricocheting into the dark. Red tracers from just overhead played across the enemy fo’c’sle as Walker backed away. A man went down on the foredeck, and another.
“Right full rudder!” Matt yelled to the helmsman. “Replacements to the number one gun!”
The number two gun fired into the Grik from a distance of less than fifty yards, and the shell detonated within the forward part of the ship. An instant later, a massive secondary explosion knocked Matt and Courtney Bradford against the chart house bulkhead, shattering the windows on the starboard side of the pilothouse. Large wooden fragments rained down on Walker’s deck, and the high-pitched, catlike wail of an injured Lemurian rose from forward. Matt shook his head to clear the ringing in his ears and blinked his eyes. Bradford was staring, stunned, at a foot-long splinter embedded in his left biceps. Jamie Miller, the pharmacist’s mate, was below, shouting at a detail of Lemurian stretcher bearers to clear the wounded off the foredeck. Matt lurched to his feet and shouted down at him. “Miller, Mr. Bradford is wounded, but I think he can walk. Please escort him below.” He turned and gently helped the disoriented Australian to his feet. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go to the wardroom now, Courtney. I’ll send for you if I need you.”
Bradford’s expression was wan and there was sweat on his forehead. He’d lost his hat. “Yes. Of course, Captain. Please do.”
Matt looked back at the Grik ship that blew up in their face. Must’ve been more of their bombs, he thought. It was sinking now, quickly, by the bow. “All stop,” he called into the pilothouse. “All ahead slow, rudder amidships.”
For an instant, Matt was able to take quick stock. The way ahead was still blocked, but the number three gun had turned the tangled ships into so much sinking junk. Soon they could go over them, if the water was deep enough. Silva, his T-shirt torn and bloody, was directing replacement gunners into their positions. Aft, the battle line advance had slowed to a crawl as its ships couldn’t resist pounding as many of the enemy as they could as they passed. Keje and Big Sal, in the lead, were no less guilty of the distraction than the others. Burning and sinking Grik Indiamen were everywhere and the dense smoke made his eyes water as he viewed the spectacle.
From his vantage point, however, he could also see that the enemy was recovering from the shock. Some ships had made sail and were attempting to escape, but others were trying to move in close, in typical Grik fashion, so they could grapple and board. Those that did would be in for a surprise when their under-strength crews went to face Lemurian Guards and Marines, but that wasn’t the point. The first priority was to get those troops ashore. Matt spoke to his talker. “Signal Big Sal and tell her to step on it. If they fool around killing Grik too long, we’re going to get cut off from each other and we’ll have to shoot up the lane again. We don’t have the ammunition to spare.” I bet it is hard for them, though, he thought, to quit killing their Ancient Enemy when it’s this easy. They have met the boogeyman, and he is theirs, he misquoted to himself.
“Aye, aye . . . Captain? The lookout says Revenge is in a little trouble.”
Matt grabbed his binoculars and scanned ahead, past the quickly sinking “obstacle.” Revenge was still engaged with ships on either side, both of which were little more than drifting hulks by now. But two other enemy ships had closed with her. As he watched, one threw a firebomb that barely missed. Other bombs were flying now too, and one struck the water off the port beam and whooshed into a wall of flame as it ruptured. An icy tendril of dread raced down Matt’s spine.
“Expedite that signal!” he prompted. If we give the lizards time to get their act together, they’ll burn us all, he thought grimly. Another bomb broke against Revenge’s side and a pool of flame spread across her deck. Her guns fell silent as their crews raced to extinguish the fire. “Have Mr. Garrett concentrate all guns that will bear upon those ships nearest to Revenge!” he shouted at the talker. The range was just under six hundred yards, and the guns were in local control. Even so, one of the four-inch-fifties hit just under the foremast of a Grik ship that was trying to cross Revenge’s stern and throw a bomb down her length. Much like the ship that had blown up beside them, it exploded with an unexpected violence, sending flaming debris and timbers in all directions. The masts slumped toward one another and then teetered into the sea. A plume of flame roared skyward and was quickly quenched as the ship abruptly sank from view. Its lightly damaged companion was trying to perform the same maneuver ahead of Revenge, but it fell away to leeward and then heeled hard over and came to a sudden stop as it ran aground.
A bomb landed close alongside Walker, and burning liquid washed across her deck plates forward of the aft deckhouse where the number three torpedo mount had been. Matt heard a high-pitched scream. Whipping his head around, he saw a figure, engulfed in flames, stagger to the railing and leap into the sea. “God almighty!” he breathed in horrified prayer. He had no idea if it was an American or a Lemurian, but it didn’t really matter just then. Everyone aboard Walker was part of her crew. Smoke billowed from burning paint and whatever noxious substance the Grik used in their bombs as hoses played on the fire. The number two gun fired, its muzzle trained far out over the side.
Then, just as Walker broke into the clear and began to race through the open lane toward where Revenge continued pounding her helpless foes, Matt felt something under his feet that he knew was entirely wrong. It began as a violent bump that shook the ship from stem to stern and rapidly became a sickening vibration that grew with every instant. “All stop!” he shouted, and he raced to the comm, disdaining his talker. Even before he could press the TALK button for engineering, Spanky’s voice, terse with stress, came to them over the speaker.
“Lieutenant Commander McFarlane here,” he said. “I think we’ve thrown a blade on the port screw and I’ve secured the shaft. What happened? Did we hit something?”
Sure enough, the terrible vibration had ceased as quickly as it began, while Walker’s speed diminished. Matt hesitated a moment, pondering, before he replied. “I think we probably did. Probably a sunken ship. How soon can I have the starboard engine back?” he asked.
“Right now, Skipper, but just remember we only have one left!”
The cap
tain’s lips turned upward slightly in a small grin of relief. “Thanks, Spanky. I’ll watch where I’m going from now on.” He stepped back from the bulkhead and turned to the bridge watch, his face impassive once more. “Starboard engine, ahead two-thirds!” With an unbalanced, rattling groan, Walker resumed her course toward Revenge.
The crew of their captured ship greeted them with joyous cheering as they neared, the last of her adversaries still settling to the bottom nearby. They’d made it through the gauntlet. Together, Walker and Revenge positioned themselves so their broadsides could support the battle line as it emerged to join them. This disposition was doubly suitable to Revenge, because it allowed her to deliver murderous fire from her steaming-hot guns into the stern of the helplessly grounded Grik ship. For just an instant as he watched, a tiny fragment of pity toward the defenseless enemy crept into Matt’s consciousness, but it was fleeting. The far more powerful and lingering sentiment of visceral loathing quickly banished it, prompted by a mental image of what he’d seen in Revenge’s hold the stormy evening they’d taken her. Not to mention the tense apprehension that still consumed him over the discovery of the human skull. To the Grik, there was no question of surrender, and it was horrifyingly clear how they treated their prisoners. Suddenly Matt felt vaguely ashamed he was even capable of pitying them.
Clusters of feluccas began to break through, their speed and maneuverability serving them well in their passage through the chaos. The entire bay was awash in flames, the scope of destruction awe-inspiring. A number of ships continued burning furiously, and many more Grik were so involved in preventing their own ships from catching fire, they were unable to contribute to the fight. Matt knew Walker had savaged them and he had no idea how many Grik she’d sunk. The number of burning ships was surprising even so, and he realized some of them must have set fire to each other, flinging their bombs haphazardly in the midst of battle.
The battle line was almost through to them now, their massive guns spitting hate at the Ancient Enemy, blasting great gaping holes in hulls and smashing masts and bodies on any vessel that dared draw near. Some still did, regardless of damage, in the predictable Grik style. The very waters of the bay burned with Grik Fire as bomb after bomb exploded against the stout, scorched sides of the Homes or spilled their burning contents onto the sea. Any fires that were started on the great wooden fortresses were quickly extinguished, and very little had been left exposed that would burn. The decks were soaked before the battle and the huge fabric wings had been stowed, leaving only the massive sweep-oars for propulsion. One by one, the blackened and smoldering but otherwise unscathed leviathans crashed through the final obstacles separating them from Walker and Revenge and slowly took up positions lengthening the line with their port batteries bearing on the bay.
Even then they continued to fire, without nearly as great an effect at the increased range, but with just as much determination. The surviving Grik that could began to flee. At least half the enemy’s fleet of forty ships had been destroyed, and most of those remaining afloat were damaged to varying degrees. Matt was tempted to allow Walker’s main battery to continue firing, but he knew he had to conserve ammunition. This was but the opening stroke, and he inwardly cringed at his expectation of what they had expended.
“Cease firing,” he said, but the guns had already fallen silent, probably at Garrett’s command. After the noise and turmoil of battle, his voice sounded strange . . . disassociated. He glanced at his watch and experienced the usual sense of disorientation when he realized the seemingly hours-long battle had lasted less than forty minutes. The rest of the fleet’s cannonade became more desultory as the remaining targets drew away, and a great tide of cheering voices from thousands of throats rose and washed over him.
Larry Dowden appeared at his side. He’d been at his battle station on the aft deckhouse and was black with soot and sweat from the fire that came too close. He stood with Matt and stared at the scene of destruction as the roar of exultation continued. “Even better than Balikpapan . . . in the old war,” he finally managed. His voice held a trace of wonder. Matt nodded. The enormity of the victory was beginning to sink in. “This even feels better,” Dowden continued. “God knows I hate the Japs . . . except Shinya, I guess, but he’s the proof. At least Japs are people. This feels more like . . . killing snakes.”
Matt looked at him and grinned, shaking his head. “Mr. Dowden, shame on you! To insult snakes in such a way!”
“Captain,” interrupted the talker, “Mr. Garrett says . . . He says you should go to the starboard wing, sir.” Exchanging puzzled glances, Matt and Dowden complied. Several of the watch were already there, staring over the water at the walled city that reflected the light of the burning ships in the bay. It was an impressive sight. Matt had become so accustomed to the strange Oriental-style bamboo architecture of Baalkpan that the far more conventional, even vaguely medieval European design of this world’s Surabaya struck him as more exotic than it once would have. He looked at Garrett, who was leaning over the rail above.
“What is it, Mr. Garrett?”
“Listen, sir,” he said, almost shouting, and pointed at the city. Matt turned back toward shore and strained his ears to hear over the cheering. He couldn’t imagine what it was that Garrett wanted him to hear over—then it hit him. The cheering of the fleet wasn’t just echoing off the walls of the city, it was being answered from within! Even at this distance, and in the dark, he saw hundreds of figures standing on the walls, waving banners and weapons in triumph and shouting their defiance to the massive Grik army encamped outside their walls. From that army there came only a shocked, sullen silence.
Matt clasped his hands behind his back and strained to keep his relief in check. Underlying all the concerns he’d felt over the meeting with the Grik had been not knowing how the people here would receive them. They’d still have to guard against friction, but for now . . . “It seems the Aryaalans are glad to see us after all, wouldn’t you say, Mr.
Dowden?” His statement was met with a few hopeful chuckles.
“Captain!” cried the talker, who’d come as close as his cord would allow. “Lookout says there’s a small boat coming up to starboard!”
Matt heard the bolt rack back on the .30-cal above his head. “Hold your fire!” he shouted, looking up. “Mr. Garrett, inform all stations to hold fire!” He turned and peered into the darkness that lay between them and the shore. The blazing wrecks threw a lot of light on the fleet and the fortress, but the space between them was in shadow, cast by the battle line. Even so, he saw what looked like a barge approaching from landward. It was about thirty feet long and broad in the beam. There were six banks of oars on each side and they rose and dipped with admirable precision. “Get Chack up here, on the double,” he said, glancing forward. In less than twenty seconds, Chack and Chief Gray were both beside him. Matt was looking through his binoculars and when he noticed their arrival, he handed the glasses to Chack. “What do you make of them?” Chack looked through the binoculars, mainly because he liked to. He didn’t really need them to see who was approaching.
“Aryaalans, Captain,” he said simply. Then he looked at Matt, inscrutable and expressionless as always, but he was blinking a sequence reserved for surprise. Intense surprise. “And others.”
Matt had started to turn and issue an order, but stopped and looked back at Chack. “What do you . . . ? Just a moment.” He did turn then. “Signal the fleet ‘Well done’ and compliments. Also, all battle line captains please report aboard Walker. They can send a representative if they have damage or other pressing concerns.” His gaze returned to Chack. “What were you saying?”
Chack wordlessly handed the binoculars back. Slightly annoyed, Matt raised them once more. The boat was much closer now, and even as he looked, he heard several exclamations of surprise from some of those crowding with him on the bridgewing.
The first thing he noticed was the Aryaalans themselves. He was struck by how different they appeared from t
he Lemurians he was used to. Counting the rowers, there were sixteen or seventeen of them on the barge, and almost all of them had dark-colored pelts. It was impossible in the dim light to tell exactly what color they were, but he had an impression of sable. That was unusual enough, since no two Lemurians he’d met were precisely the same color. And yet the differences didn’t end there. The People they’d grown accustomed to—Spanky’s efforts notwithstanding—wore as little clothing as they could get away with—usually just a kilt. The people who approached were quite well-appointed. Even the rowers wore platter-like copper helmets—not unlike the steel ones Matt’s own destroyermen wore at stations—as well as thick leather, knee-length smocks.
What appeared to be “officers” or dignitaries stood clustered on a platform near the back of the boat, resplendent in robes and highly polished bronze armor. Feather plumes adorned their helmets, and unlike their seafaring cousins who generally kept their facial fur cropped short, these creatures sported long, flowing manes that outlined their aggressive features. All of these impressions became a whirlwind of peripheral detail when he noticed the two individuals on the platform with the four potentates.
“My God.”
An hour later, they all sat in the hastily cleared wardroom. The casualties were mercifully few, but they’d encompassed the extremes, being mostly either slight or fatal. The victim of the fire had been a Lemurian whose name Matt didn’t know, but they’d also lost Andy Powell, ordnance striker on the number one gun. Tom Felts and Gil Olivera were wounded, but so slightly that they’d already returned to duty. Two other Lemurian crew folk had been hurt, and after patching them up and applying the magical antiseptic paste, Sandra bundled them off to their racks. Bradford’s wound was a little more serious and had actually required surgery to remove the jagged splinter from his arm. He sat with them now, however, the very picture of the modest wounded hero, with his arm heavily bandaged and in a sling.
Crusade Page 8
