by Tom Kratman
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, however, 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 none 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.
Indeed, it had not bought anything but a reduction in fire from the freighter. It still closed on the helpless Dos Lindas; the distance now was just over one thousand meters.
Especially did it not buy us any time. Oh, God, for some time. With time even our forties could chew through. With time . . .
* * *
The patrol boats launched by the Hoogaboom went by the simple names of "Wahid" and "Ithnayn;" "One" and "Two." Why, after all, invest any emotion or any name into what amounted to throwaway weapons?
They'd held back, One and Two, after being launched. This was not out of any fear; the men aboard the boats had no expectation, nor perhaps even any desire, to live. But there were only the two. Ahead, they'd be vulnerable to the defensive armaments of the target. Astern, they could react to any threats that arose to their primary, and do so especially well against any threats to their primary's greatest point of vulnerability, it's long, broad flanks.
Thus, when the captains of One and Two saw the tracers from Trinidad, they'd begin to move cautiously and carefully through the smoke to where they thought they would find the rear quarter of whatever was engaging the Hoogaboom. Side by side they moved until the bow gunner on One saw the infidel boat. He immediately engaged, followed by Two's bow gunner as soon as that boat had closed enough to make out a target.
* * *
Pedraz felt more than heard the incoming fire from his starboard aft quarter. Indeed, the first he actually heard was when the machine gunner on that point screamed at being chopped apart by the concentrated fire of first one, then two, then a half dozen enemy machine guns that came from astern.
Poor Marco, Pedraz thought as he applied throttle to get the hell away from the position in which he found himself. Unseen, Legionary Turco's body slid across the deck, leaving a broad swath of blood behind, before plunging over the stern. He'd never had a chance to strap himself in.
* * *
There wasn't a lot of advantage either way. All three patrol boats, Trinidad, One and Two, were sleek and fast and armed. Trinidad with her forty, was much more heavily armed. Sadly, though, the forty could not fire astern and Trinidad could not turn without presenting a vulnerable side to the pursuing craft.
"And that fucking freighter is closing on the Dos Lindas," Pedraz fumed. "Shit, shit, SHIT!"
A near burst of machine gun fire passed just to Pedraz's right, splintering the glass to his front. "Shit!" Pedraz repeated.
Nothing for it but to go for the glory, he thought.
"Cris," the skipper shouted to his XO, "get astern and be prepared to man Turco's gun. You'll know when."
"What are ya gonna do, Skipper?"
"Diekplous," Pedraz shouted, as Francés scurried astern. Then he said into his microphone, "Clavell, bring your gun to bear ninety degrees to port. Guys, we're gonna turn and go right in between them. Fire as you bear."
* * *
Both One's and Two's crews, and especially the
gunners, laughed maniacally as they pursued the fleeing infidel boat. It had been all too rare, in this war, to see the enemy actually turn and run on the battlefield. Such moments were to be savored. Especially were they to be savored when the time available for such savoring was destined to be very short.
* * *
Sweating profusely, heart pounding fit to burst from his chest, Clavell huddled behind his gun shield, eye pressed firmly to his sight. Beside him, Guptillo held on for dear life against the turn he was pretty sure the skipper was about to make.
"If you ever made a good shot, Jose, make one now," Guptillo said.
Eye still to his sight, Clavell couldn't answer by nod. Instead, he stuck one thumb in the air.
Suddenly, the boat slowed and began to turn to port. Clavell cranked the gun down to compensate, never moving his eye from his sight. Sea passed in his view, then more sea, then more . . . then . . .
Kawhamkawhamkawhamkawhamkawham. Clavell depressed the trigger on the forty as the veer of the boat brought it into view and almost aligned. Downrange, his first shell missed, bursting in the water. His second missed as well. But he held true to his aim and trusted the movement of the ship to align the target perfectly. Shells three through five, rewarding his faith, found their target, smashing the front of Two like so much kindling. Enemy sailors, and pieces of sailors, went flying in all directions. Others aboard Two, those further astern, continued to fire after only a brief, shocked pause.
"And now we charge. Banzai, motherfuckers!" Pedraz shouted over the rising roar of the engines, the crash of the cannon, and the cloth-ripping hum of his machine guns.
The Trinidad spurted ahead, her machine gunners, plus Guptillo and Clavell, trading what amounted to mutual automatic broadsides with the Ikhwan fighters of One and those remaining aboard Two. Sailors on both sides went down, some suddenly and silently, others with curses and screams. The armor worn by Pedraz's crew helped, but at this range, perhaps one hundred meters, it didn't help much. And the greaves didn't cover the back of the sailors' legs at all.
