He nodded at the new ship “The math comes out like this: We’re figuring on between twenty-three- and twenty-six-thousand-shaft horse power. We don’t have the instruments to measure precisely, but it’s close, based on what Walker’s engines were rated at and the performance of the new DDs. Add three shafts together and we come up with at least sixty-nine thousand. The old Brit C Class CL’s of the last war . . .” He hesitated, looking at Forester. Though somewhat British by descent and culture, it was pointless to describe a class of ships built 150 years after Forester’s ancestors came to this world, possibly from another world entirely, where C Class light cruisers may never have happened at all. The multiple lines of history that seemed to have converged here often made things difficult to explain. Or comprehend. And trying to do either always made Alan’s head hurt. “Skip it,” he said. “Anyway, these other ships, of similar hull shape, length, and displacement, got nearly thirty knots out of about forty thousand SHP. . . .” He realized he’d lost Forester entirely. “Skip it,” he said again, and sighed. “We’re pretty sure.”
Forester cleared his throat, then smiled and waved at the ship. “Well,” he said, “she certainly looks formidable!”
“She is, by most standards,” Alan agreed, but his enthusiasm was suddenly waning.
“By any standard, she’s a hell of an achievement,” Stokes stressed. He pointed. “She’s got six five-point-five-inch guns, all tied to a calibrated gun director copied from Amagi. We went with the five-fives because we’re already makin’ ammunition an’ liners for ’em, for the salvaged Jap secondaries on Santy Cat an’ the others. They’re bag guns an’ won’t shoot as fast as four-inch-fifties, but they’ll shoot farther an’ hit more than twice as hard. She’s also got five dual-purpose four-inch-fifties, as you can see, which’ll help against aerial targets. We’re workin’ hard to design a proper antiair fire-control system, after what happened to TF Alden. . . .” He frowned and looked at Alan. “Nobody saw that comin, an’ it was my job to expect it.” His tone sounded more scolding than contrite. He looked back at Forester. “She’s gettin’ the first new fifty cals as well, a full dozen of the bloody things, in six twin mounts. That’ll help too.” He gestured aft. “An’ she’ll carry eight torpedoes an’ two Nancy floatplanes. The aft deckhouse has more space for a workshop than Walker ever had, for torpedoes, everyday repairs, an’ aviation maintenance as well.” He waved his hand back and forth. “She’s got half a dozen depth charge launchers down her sides to frighten mountain fish”—his expression turned hard—“or kill subs, which she’ll find as easy as Walker ever did, now we’ve matched the old girl’s sound equipment.” He shrugged. “An’ her electrics are better than anything we’ve done. Commander Riggs’s been bloody busy with all his contrivances. The only thing she hasn’t got I wish she did is radar.”
“What’s that?”
“The holy grail, Ambassador,” Alan answered wistfully. “Maybe someday.”
“Well, then,” Forester said. “I’m sure it must be amazingly technical.” He nodded at the cruiser and the two other ships. “Have you decided where these will go? I hope you’ll consider sending them east. I know the two, ah, destroyers can’t be completed quickly enough, but the cruiser might be just the thing to tip the scale against the blasted Doms. General Shinya is going all out to chase that loathsome Don Hernan to ground before he can escape, and the Governor-Empress wants a push toward the Pass of Fire in support of that—perhaps even to break through at long last and join young Leftenant Reynolds and Ensign Faask and the friends they’ve made.” He frowned. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed to learn that the New United States were not as well prepared to support us as we’d been led to believe, but we’ve had steadfast assurances they’ll now do their best.”
“Believe me, Bolton,” Alan said, with feeling, “I’d love to focus on kicking Don Hernan’s sick ass. And you’re right; this might be our best chance to get it done. But the situation’s dicey in the west. We got our ass handed to us at the Battle of Mahe. Besides Baalkpan Bay and Geran-Eras, we lost a lot of auxiliaries. We have to get supplies, troops, and as many warships as we can scrape together out there as fast as we can.” He regarded Forester with a worried frown of his own. “The fact of the matter is, despite everything, this may be our only chance to break the Grik as well—before they drown us in their own blood, if they have to. Colonel Enaak says the truce with General Halik is holding. He’s busy tearing across Persia, killing other Grik. Enaak and Svec’s cavalry aren’t actually fighting alongside him, but they’re acting as his eyes.”
“How very strange,” Forester mused. “Our forces and at least a band of Grik, apparently getting along . . .”
“Yeah. Bloody weird,” Stokes agreed. “An’ we’re still not sure Halik won’t link up with General Esshk,” he cautioned, “but even Colonel Svec—who hates Grik mor’n most, by the way—considers that unlikely. Esshk’d probably want Halik’s head after what he’s done—an’ become.”
Alan was nodding. “But Esshk is up to something. He’s got well-trained and well-equipped Grik troops ashore in southern Madagascar. They were obviously staging to launch an overland assault against Grik City, probably coordinated with another amphibious attack. They’re on a string now, supply wise, since Chief Silva and Colonel Chack messed up their scheme, and we’ll cut the string completely when we get Arracca’s battlegroup and Santy Cat down there. But I have to stress these were real troops, well armed and disciplined. That’s confirmed. Matt—I mean, Captain Reddy—always suspected the last attack was their way of getting rid of thousands of old-style Grik berserkers, while hurting us at the same time. We think they’ve got ten or twenty thousand new-style Grik already ashore, and all the rest of Esshk’s forces are just as well trained and equipped.”
“An’ I don’t like those rows of boat sheds Lieutenant Commander Leedom saw, when he flew past the Grik capital of Sofesshk,” Stokes supplied. “He an’ Jumbo Fisher took two Clippers down an’ bombed ’em yesterday—along with a few dozen Grik zeps, I’m happy to say. Dodged a lot of ant-air rockets too, an’ took damage to one of the planes. But they reported the sheds were empty.” He shook his head. “Whatever was in ’em is gone, scattered up the rivers, most likely. But I think Esshk is gettin’ ready for a big push of his own, an’ we need to jump before he does.”
Alan nodded. “Reports from Major Bekiaa-Sab-At in the Republic of Real People indicate Kaiser Nig-Taak and General Kim finally have their forces on track to advance on Sofesshk from the south. Bekiaa still has reservations about their preparedness, but everyone feels the urgency that we have to hit Esshk before he hits us.” He took off his hat and rubbed his brow. “I sense it too. Based on everything we know or can guess, if Esshk gets all his shit in the sock at the same time, he’ll have three-quarters of a million troops to throw at us. Generals Alden, Safir Maraan, and Muln-Rolak all agree we have to hit him first, before he consolidates, defeat his army in detail while it’s still scattered. A surprise attack from the south should help with that, followed quickly by Alden’s attack up the Zambezi with three full corps. It’s all we can do,” Alan added with a trace of desperation in his voice. “And I don’t need to tell you what’ll happen if we fail,” he stated simply.
“It does seem a rather risky scheme,” Forester observed somberly. “But I don’t know what else you can do. When do you plan to go?”
“At the last possible moment,” Alan answered fervently. “We’ll keep up the harassing raids on Sofesshk, increasing them as Arracca and hopefully Madras get in place and add their planes to the effort. But the main point of those’ll be watching for when Esshk makes his move. Maybe he won’t gather his forces as long as we keep that up. We need time more than anything, time to get more ships and planes and people down there—and time for Captain Reddy to deal with Kurokawa on Zanzibar.”
“I was wondering when you’d get to that,” Forester said, glancing at the cruiser. “
His possession of the battleship Savoie makes all this rather more problematic than would otherwise be the case.”
“You can say that again. Savoie, and whatever else he has. At least one carrier, with planes as good as ours. If he goes down to join with Esshk and we can’t stop him, he can shred Arracca and Santy Cat—and there won’t be much we can do about it.”
“So you, and Captain Reddy in particular, will deal with him before he can cause more mischief,” Forester predicted.
“That’s the plan. If Walker can be repaired in time, and if we can get our strike team assembled . . .” Alan smiled mirthlessly. “With their four puny tanks.” The tanks had been Alan’s brainchild, and there’d be no more in time. The assembly of representatives had decided to focus resources not already allocated to more shipbuilding. And Alan could understand that. But what happened when they weren’t fighting on the sea anymore?
“And that’s also your chief concern, is it not?” Forester asked gently. “You’re concerned that with Captain Reddy’s wife, Lady Sandra, in his hands, Kurokawa will attempt to use her in some way that will prevent Captain Reddy from doing what he must?”
Alan sadly shook his head. “No, Bolton. I’m sure he’ll do exactly that. And I’m just as sure that nothing’ll keep Captain Reddy from his duty. I’m just worried what that’ll do to him. To all of us.”
Forester coughed, then turned to face the cruiser. “Indeed. Well, perhaps this will help.”
Stokes snorted, and Forester looked at him in surprise. “Oh, we’ll do our damnedest to get her there,” Stokes said, “but it ain’t bloody likely. She’s still a few weeks from her trials. As she sits, she might not even make it there! She’s the most experimental thing we’ve ever done.”
“Yeah,” Alan agreed, his voice grim. “And that’s with shifts going around the clock to finish her.” He shook his head. “All for nothing.”
“What on earth do you mean?” Forester asked, troubled by Alan’s tone.
“He means she’s no match for Savoie,” Stokes replied. “When we laid her down we thought the worst she’d ever face was a Grik dreadnaught or two, or a flock o’ Dom ships o’ the line. She’d serve them up proper without breakin’ a sweat, from farther than they could even hit her. But we never dreamed there was anybody out there like the League; with somethin’ like Savoie they could afford to just give away. What the hell else’ve they got? I’m the sticky beak around here now, an’ I’ll find out,” he said forcefully. “An’ there’s a fair go I will pretty soon,” he added cryptically. Then he waved at the cruiser. “She’s a fine ship, an’ we learned a lot makin’ her, but we’d o’ been better off makin’ four more of those”—he pointed at the DDs—“with the same steel. Now, if we had her to do over again, gave her bigger guns an’ a bit of armor, it might make a difference. As she is, by herself she’s little more use against somethin’ like Savoie than Walker is—except she’s a bigger target.”
Forester blinked. “I fear you may have been overly influenced by recent events and allowed yourselves to grow too gloomy,” he scolded. “Particularly if that ship can do all you say. And it strikes me that unless you want to send her east after all, where she’ll be quite welcome indeed—and all she’ll have to face is a flock of Doms—then the key is not to use her by herself. And, if necessary, let her be a target. I don’t know Captain Reddy as well as either of you, but I know him well enough to be quite certain that’s what he would do.” He looked back at the cruiser. “Whether she’s complete in time to help him against Savoie or not, Captain Reddy will find a most excellent use for . . .” He paused. “What is your naming convention for ships of her type?” he asked at last.
“Cruisers are cities,” Alan replied, his tone now thoughtful as he turned Forester’s words over in his mind. “But a lot of our cities are ‘states’ in the new Union.” A ghost of a smile appeared on his lips. “And what about the seagoing Homes? Can’t name a cruiser after them and have two ships with one name! And since so many cities have hosted battles”—the smile turned ironic—“their names usually go to carriers.” He shrugged. “Public sentiment being what it is, though, there was never really any choice. She’s USS Fitzhugh Gray, CL-1.” Alan managed a genuine smile. “The Super Bosun’s probably spinning in his grave, with his name on a cruiser. But at least she’s a light cruiser. Maybe we can get away with classing her as a destroyer leader?” He shook his head. “I guess it doesn’t make any difference.”
“Oh, but it does,” Forester objected, turning to face him. “The name does, at any rate. Can you imagine any member of your Navy Clan who wouldn’t do his or her very best to ensure she’s worthy of that name? I can’t. And I’ll tell you something else: names are important. They mean things. And if any part of Chief Gray’s spirit went into that ship, along with his name, I’m confident she’ll perform with the same resolve and commitment to duty he embodied—and sell her life just as nobly and dearly as he, if the time ever comes.”
Stokes actually chuckled. “I didn’t know Gray well, but who’s gettin’ the ship might make him spin even faster.” He shrugged. “We’ll skipper the new tin cans all right. Plenty of ’Cats have experience in Walker or Mahan. But we’ve damn little choice when it comes to handlin’ large steamers. Most’re goin’ to the new carriers, even the big freighters an’ oilers. An’ Gray needs a skipper with experience handlin’ an’ fightin’ a fast, big ship like she was a destroyer, while rememberin’ she ain’t—an’ we only have one of those just hangin’ around right now.”
Forester looked at him questioningly. “Who did you give her to?” he asked.
“Lieutenant—well, I guess he’ll be Commander when I tell him—Toryu Miyata.”
Miyata had been a junior navigation officer aboard Amagi when she came to this world. Disillusioned by Kurokawa’s madness, and even sympathetic to the Allied cause after their heroic defense of Baalkpan Bay and Amagi’s destruction there, he’d defected to the Republic of Real People when, considered expendable, he’d been sent to deliver an ultimatum to the Republic to join the Great Hunt or become prey. Distracted by reverses at the hands of the Alliance, the Grik never pursued their threat against the (to them, frigid and undesirable) land of the Republic, and had apparently practically forgotten it, considering it a negligible threat. Hopefully, they’d soon be disabused of that notion. But after he warned the Republic, Miyata came east with Amerika and ultimately joined Laumer’s and Silva’s attack against the Celestial Mother. He’d been the most badly wounded member of the team to survive, nearly losing a leg to the jaws of a huge, terrible beast unleashed to guard the lower levels of the palace. Finally, accompanying his new friend Gunny Horn, he’d been one of the wounded aboard Amerika when she was sunk by Savoie. Immediately upon his rescue, he’d begged an audience with Alan Letts—and made his oath to the American Navy Clan.
Alan still remembered the sincerity—and intensity—of the interview, and shook his head now. “I may be wrong, but I don’t think Miyata’s being a Jap would much bother the Super Bosun anymore. He made his peace with Shinya, if you’ll recall, and knew Miyata had volunteered for the Cowflop stunt. That was a suicide mission if there ever was one, and it’s a miracle anyone survived.” He removed his hat again and ran a hand across short, sweaty hair. “And you know? I like to think Chief Gray was listening when I interviewed Miyata. If he was, I doubt he’d have any issue with the man’s motivations for joining us, after all he’s been through.” He grimaced. “And he damn sure wouldn’t doubt Miyata’s resolve to get even for Amerika—and the other stuff Kurokawa’s done. I don’t.” He looked at Forester. “So maybe you’re right. If Gray’s spirit is in that ship, combined with Miyata’s determination, I probably have been selling her short.”
CHAPTER 2
////// Occupied Grik City
North Mada-gaas-gar
“This is, hands down, the goofiest damn place I ever been,” Chief Gunner’s Mate Dennis Silv
a growled at Lawrence, his Grik-like Sa’aaran pal, as they strode along the top of an earthen berm on the southeast side of Grik City Bay. Silva was looking around at the modest fortification they walked on, the harbor to his right, what remained of the city and the huge structures ahead away from the waterfront. As usual, though the sky was relatively clear for once, it was hot and oppressively humid, without the slightest breeze. And being just below the equator, apparently a kind of spring was trying to kick in, as far as the local fauna was concerned. So in addition to the uncomfortable environment they’d grown accustomed to, new clouds of swarming insects had emerged to torment them wherever they went. They reminded Silva of mayflies—that bit—and there were different-colored ones almost every day. The annoyance they caused was balanced, however, by the fact that Petey absolutely loved them.
Petey was a weird, colorful little tree-gliding reptile—as much like a parrot as a lizard—that liked to ride the back of Dennis’s neck, draped around it like a loose bandanna. He was constantly snatching insects from the air with darting jaws and munching contentedly, making happy chomping sounds and dropping twitching legs and membranous wing fragments in their path. The endless buffet helped Dennis and Lawrence cope with the muggy climate and teeming bugs, because Petey had redefined gluttony, in Silva’s estimation, and anything that kept him fed—and quiet—was a blessing. What made Dennis uncharacteristically grumpy, however, was that he’d been ordered to clean up. Even that wouldn’t normally have penetrated his customary “malevolent cheerfulness,” as Courtney Bradford once described his personality. It was why, and for whom, that pissed him off.
Devil's Due Page 6
