by Tom Kratman
Replaces Christ's wooden cross
Comes from white noise."
White? White? Fosa wondered. How to play on that? Ah, sheep are white.
"Climate change white sheep
Hate being out of the flock
Lest they be shorn . . . baaaa"
"Bah! Bah, indeed," Kurita exhulted.
"Great Climate Change!
For heretics, deniers,
Jail cells are waiting."
Fosa answered:
"Even Progressives
In Fed'rated States Senate
Say, 'Piss on Kosmos!'"
From Kurita:
"Climate change loonies
Shriek, 'Heresy! Blasphemy!'
Whenever questioned."
Fosa expanded:
"Gathering firewood
To burn up the deniers.
We've seen this before."
After he stopped laughing, Kurita gave:
"Virgin SUV
Cast into the volcano
As the faithful dance."
At that point, Fosa gave up. The image of ten thousand grass-skirt clad Kosmos, deep in religious ecstasy, sacrificing an innocent automobile to the dark earth gods was too much. No doubt much of his mirth was found in the sake, not the poetry. Even so, Fosa was rolling on the floor laughing when, to cap his victory, Kurita gave his last recital:
"High Kosmo leeches
Attend luxury conference
Always fly first class."
* * *
Fosa's reminiscences were interrupted by the sudden arrival of a Cricket on the flight deck. With a plane needing as short a landing run as the Cricket, and landing into the wind, to boot, all arrivals tended to be very sudden.
No sooner had it landed, and the pilot killed the engine, then that pilot was out the door and racing across the flight deck to the tower. He disappeared from view, only to emerge on the bridge moments later.
"My fucking radio went down, Skipper," Montoya announced, even before formally reporting. "I'd have come back right away but there was something odd, a boat, I saw hidden in the jungle."
"Odd?" Fosa asked.
"Three ways, Skipper. One was that it was pretty well hidden. Another was that it looked fast, what I could make out of it. The last was that there were armed men aboard, and they didn't shoot at me."
Kurita's finger beat Fosa's to the alarm: Battle stations, this is no drill.
* * *
Lovely word, 'karma,' the Naquib thought. Pity we don't have quite the equivalent in Islam. But it was karma, or Allah's will, that the infidel aircraft spotted us. Maybe I should have ordered that aircraft engaged. Maybe I did right in not ordering it engaged. I'll never know in this life. What I do know is we must attack now, even though the enemy is not in the optimal position for our ambush.
One hundred meters up a half choked inlet, al Naquib's boat wound its way through the maze of fallen logs and sand bars. To either side, he heard the distance-dissipated roar of large marine engines coming to life and doing likewise. He could not hear the motors of the half dozen boats on the other side of the Straits. Yet his chief assistant had told him they were likewise on the move.
Unseen and unheard by al Naquib, crews for the cruise missiles and torpedoes were frantically unmasking, activating their guidance systems, and preparing to fire. Hopefully they would launch in good time.
UEPF Spirit of Peace
"They're launching aircraft!" Robinson shouted. "Why the fuck are they launching aircraft?"
It was true. It was more than true. Robinson had watched this ship, off and on, for months and he'd never before seen such a frantic attempt to get as many aircraft into the air, as quickly, as he was witnessing now. As soon as a plane came up the elevator, a deck crew was manhandling it into position and sending it off. Pilots were lined up waiting for any bird to fly. Once, when an engine refused to start, the deck crew had unceremoniously dragged the protesting pilot out and pushed the thing over the side. Pilots, themselves, were boarding with small arms, an indicator that the planes were being thrown up either unarmed or so lightly armed that even a rifle could make a difference.
Robinson relaxed slightly when he saw the two trails of underwater torpedoes streaking from under the jungle layer which had hidden them. His spirits revived considerably with the appearance of a larger number of cruise missiles coming from the same jungle.
* * *
Abdul Aziz had, early on, thought that torpedoes and cruise missiles might be a useful adjunct to the Hoogaboom and its mission. Further reflection, however, had convinced him that the risk of detection, if placed aboard ship, was too great. This had not meant the idea was without merit, only that it needed further refinement.
Large torpedoes were out for a number of reasons, chief among these was that "large" equaled both "noticeable" and "too heavy and bulky to transport and set up in the jungle along the straits." There were, however, much smaller torpedoes available, from various Volgan crime syndicates, and for surprisingly little money. These torpedoes were not suitable for sinking a major warship, of course, but that wasn't their purpose. Rather, they were designed to home on engine noise to kill submarines. What would kill a submarine, Abdul thought, was likely to severely damage an AZIPOD.
This both torpedoes were trying to do, streaking under the water straight for the AZIPODs mounted at Dos Lindas' stern.
* * *
"Fish in the water! Fish in the water! Fuck! Fish in the water!"
Fosa heard the sonar man's announcement and dread filled his heart. Looking at the screen and seeing the torpedoes aligning themselves for a run at the propellers, he was about to give the command to kill power when radar screamed, "Moonbats! Moonbats! Moonbats! Cruise missiles incoming . . . Raid count: three . . . no, four . . . ah, shit! Six! Skipper, Moonbats six, all quarters."
"Surface Action, Port and Starboard," Fosa ordered. "Weapons free."
There was a whining overhead and a sudden CRACK as the laser mounted above the tower engaged one of the cruise missiles. Two more, much more muted, CRACKs sounded as the fore and aft lasers likewise engaged. In the distance, and it was not nearly enough distance, two explosions that had to be in the half ton of TNT range, told that the lasers had scored, if imperfectly. There were still four cruise missiles incoming and the smoke, apparently, made engagement more than a little problematic.
Again, the defensive lasers fired. Again, only two hit, creating huge angry clouds of hot gas and flying metal. But there had been six missiles. There were still two . . . and there was no more time.
UEPF Spirit of Peace
"Fuck!" Robinson cursed as first two, then two more, of the Ikhwan's cruise missiles were destroyed. And then he saw a sight to gratify his heart as a massive explosion erupted on the ship's side, and another self detonated, so he thought, just above the tower atop the carrier. Within moments the ship's rear elevator, likewise, burst forth in smoke and fire. Atop the column of flame, Robinson thought he saw a helicopter being blasted upward.
"Take that, fuckers!"
Santisima Trinidad
The air was still heavily weighted with smoke from the shoreline fires. Pedraz scanned through it, as best he could, with the binoculars he carried as a matter of habit now. Sweeping his vision along the shoreline, Pedraz whispered, "Nada. Just fucking nada."
Even though the PTF was a few miles away from the Dos Lindas, the battle stations klaxon sounded clearly across the water. Then came the message from CIC to all escorts to expect attack by surface boats, probably suicide boats, and to close in on the flagship. Pedraz pulled on a set of headphones and then reached for the klaxon.
Before Pedraz could give the signal for battle stations a half dozen speedboats swarmed out from the banks of the strait. Clavell and Guptillo, manning the forward forty, engaged even without orders. Their first several shots missed, but then they were rewarded by a major blast as one of the speedboats simply disintegrated when a shell found what must have been a huge char
ge of explosive.
Cheering was cut short as, just off the port side, a flaming streak shot past, followed by another to starboard. The machine gunners, moving as quickly as their legs would carry them from wherever the call to battle stations had found them, were mostly too late to bring fire on the cruise missiles. Only one gun actually engaged, and it missed.
No time for orders, Pedraz took the con, himself, elbowing Francés out of the way. Pushing the throttle to maximum, he twisted the wheel to point the boat away from the shore and towards the threatened carrier. Clavell and Guptillo swung the forty around to engage another of the small boats but the Trinidad turned faster than they could traverse the gun.
No matter, by the time the Trinidad was headed toward the carrier, the rear machine gun crews were fighting desperately, causing the speedboats to have to maneuver to avoid being hit.
Pedraz thought, If nothing else, it buys time. Now if only . . .
He saw a massive explosion between the Trinidad and the flagship. He was about to cheer when he saw another explosion, above the carrier, and then another near the stern. He wasn't sure it was the flagship being hit until he spotted the Yakamov helicopter being launched strait up, riding a column of fire and disintegrating as it flew.
"Oh, fuck."
In his headphones, Pedraz heard, "Skipper? Dorado. Sonar's got two fish in the water, running shallow."
Bridge, Dos Lindas
The ship lurched, tossing to the deck everyone on the bridge not already seated and strapped in. None of the thick windows quite shattered, but every portside window there was cracked, along with most of those a-starboard. Even through the blurring of the cracks, even from flat on his ass, Fosa saw the abruptly launched Yakamov, streaking upward like a comet.
"Near miss . . . ah, Hell, call it a hit. Hit Alpha, island structure, zero-four level. Hit Bravo, hangar deck, starboard side aft. Fire on the hangar deck! Damage control parties away."
A smoke-choked and shock-strained voice from somewhere below came over the speaker. "There are no . . . damage control . . . parties near the . . . hit."
"My Shshshiiippp!"
"Captain-san," Kurita said, groggily, "stay here and fight your ship. I will see to damage control." With that, the nonagenarian struggled to his feet and left, seeking the epicenter of the damage.
"Fight my ship . . . fight my ship . . . FIGHT MY FUCKING SHIP!"
In those few seconds, Fosa understood a part of what Kurita had been trying to tell him before, about ships having spirits and souls, about them being alive. At least he understood this much, that his ship was more valuable to him than his own life and must be preserved, at all costs consistent with its own honor.
Can something with honor be without a soul?
Hands gripping a plotting table, Fosa pulled himself to his feet. He heard machine gun and light cannon fire from all around as the gun crews finally got to their battle stations and began engaging the speedboats. Range was long but it couldn't hurt to try. He'd expended something over a million rounds of ammunition in training. If they couldn't get some stinking jury-rigged speedboats, no one could. He'd counted the number of explosions from cruise missiles. There had been six launches and six explosions. If the enemy had had more missiles, they'd have launched more, he thought. What else threatens my ship?
"Report!"
"That one above us took out the radar, Captain. Before that I had no hostile aircraft, captain," Radar said.
"Ours are still trying to organize out of cluster fuck mode, sir," said the air boss.
Sonar announced, "Skipper, I've still got two fish in the water, one each, port and starboard. Countermeasures are not, I repeat not, effective. First impact expected in seven minutes."
Seven minutes . . . seven minutes . . . a whole lifetime can pass in seven minutes.
Fosa reached for the microphone. "Escorts, this is Fosa."
"Trinidad, here, sir . . . Agustin, sir."
"The flagship's been hit but I think we can save her," Fosa said. "What we can't do anything about from here are the torpedoes—you see them on sonar?"
"Aye" . . . "Aye."
Fosa gulped; this was a hard order to give. "I need you to try to bait the torpedoes away . . . and if that doesn't work . . . "
No arguments, no questions. "It's better they hit us than hit the Dos Lindas. Understood. This is Agustin, we'll try" . . . "Trinidad, Pedraz speaking. I'll give it a shot."
Unseen, Fosa nodded. "Good lads," he said into the microphone. Looking up at the operations board he ordered, "Warn the Hoogaboom off. Tell them we're under attack. And, air boss, get the planes onto those goddamned speedboats."
"Hoogaboom acknowledges, sir."
Santisima Trinidad
"Nav, give me a plot for the torpedo on our side, an intercept plot."
"You're shitting me, right, Chief?"
"Just give me the fucking intercept, Dorado," Pedraz said to the navigator.
"Be a minute," Dorado answered.
"You've got fifteen seconds, Pedro, I want to pass about four hundred meters in front of the thing."
It didn't even take fifteen seconds. In half that time Dorado came back, answering, "Fuck . . . can't do it, Chief. We're not fast enough."
Pedraz picked up the radio microphone and, keying it, said, "Dos Lindas, this is Trinidad. No chance to intercept on our side. Sorry."
BdL Dos Lindas
"Captain, Agustin reports that they've caught the torpedo's attention and it's following them. They can stay ahead of it and lead it off. Trinidad says we're fucked. Impact, astern . . . two minutes."
"Hard a-port and then kill the AZIPODs."
The entire bridge crew turned and looked at Fosa as if he were mad.
"Hard a-port and then all, STOP, goddamit. Do it . . . then kill the fucking drives!"
* * *
The torpedo noted the instant drop off in screw noise. It might, had it been a less sophisticated torpedo, have then been fooled by the countermeasures the target deployed. It was, however, "competent" and, as such, had already eliminated the false noises from consideration. It had, further, tracked the speed of the carrier and was able, in general terms, to account for the continuing forward momentum of the target even if it lost its acoustic aiming point. A few degrees more steer and the torpedo continued on its merry way, aimed almost perfectly for the port side AZIPOD. Indeed, it would have been perfect, but that the ship was ever so slowly turning head on to the speeding torpedo.
* * *
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 dete
rmine 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.
