“I share your concern,” Keje agreed. “But our enemies are in two places. We cannot allow them to combine. It could be dis-aastrous if Kuro-kaa-wa moved Saavoie and the rest of his fleet to support General Esshk. My prefer-aance would be to destroy Kurokawa first, of course, and then move against Sofesshk, all together. But that would leave General Esshk free to make his move against Mada-gaas-gar . . . or, worse, respond with overwhelming force to the Republic’s attack in the South, while we are all engaged at Zanzibar. Believe me, Cap-i-taan Reddy and I have agonized over this straa-ti-gee, and see no other option.”
Alden frowned, but nodded. “Okay,” he said, looking at Ben. “But why the P-Forty? Last I heard, you were getting kinda low on those, and we might need every one you have.”
“We can’t use a Fleashooter,” Ben replied. “Their range is too short and they can’t land in the water to refuel. A Nancy would be easy meat for those Jap-Grik fighters. That leaves the P-Forty. Even with those dopey Jap floats stuck on it, it should be able to handle anything it runs into, or just run the hell away.” He glanced a little resentfully at Keje. “I’d rather fly the mission myself, of course, but the brass turned me down.”
“Do not be downcast, Col-nol Maal-lory,” Keje said with supreme indifference to the oblique complaint. “The braass is blessed to have three Salissa pilots checked out in that specific craaft, so there’s no reason for you, or any member of your Third Pursuit Squadron, to make the flight, regardless how many hours they have in Pee-Forties. None of your other pilots have ever taken off or landed on the sea.” He blinked amusement. “And due to the solitary nature of the flight, I refused Cap-i-taan Jis-Tikkar’s request as well. If I’m not prepared to risk Salissa’s Commander of Flight Operations on such a risky scout, I certainly cannot allow you, his superior, to go.” Keje grinned. “It might wound Tikker’s . . . fragile sense of self-value.”
Ben snorted and the others laughed. Tikker was the first Lemurian Ben ever taught to fly, and he’d embraced—and ably earned—a hotshot temperament extremely difficult to bruise. Even Spanky laughed at the absurdity of Keje’s defense . . . until his eye caught another group moving purposefully toward them. He groaned aloud.
The approaching delegation was led by Lieutenant Tab-At “Tabby,” Walker’s gray-furred Lemurian engineering officer. He loved Tabby like a daughter, but she still cherished a different—and unnatural, in his rationally considered view—affection for him, which could be difficult to deflect. At the moment, however, she was blinking consternation mixed with alarm. Marching behind her was the former fireman and now chief engineer Isak Reuben. Isak and his half brother, Gilbert, were the “original Mice,” once so insularly obsessed with Walker’s boilers that they almost never left their firerooms. This behavior left them singularly pallid, in an Asiatic Fleet that produced rather spectacular tans, and universally resented by their division. They got out more these days, making impressive contributions to the cause. First, they’d drawn on their pre-navy experience as wildcatters to design the rigs that ultimately produced the one material surplus the Alliance enjoyed: oil, to fuel the war effort. And while Gilbert was now in the East with Second Fleet, “King Snipe” and de-facto engineering officer in Maaka-Kakja, Isak had won notoriety as the slayer of the Grik Celestial Mother—and an unlikely power hitter, considering his short, wiry frame, on Walker’s baseball team. He wasn’t blinking as he approached, but his face was red with fury as he pounded the deck with an eight-foot section of shiny, silver-blue tubing with every step. Trotting behind the pair, eyes blinking alarm, were four ’Cats in colorful civilian kilts.
“Ah, better excuse me. This looks like trouble. Probably have to stomp out a mutiny or somethin’.”
“Of course, Co-maander Spaan-ky,” Keje replied, his gruff voice amused. The others nodded, also expecting something interesting.
Spanky strode to meet the interruption, limping only slightly, and stopped in front of Tabby, hands on his hips. “So, what’s the deal?” he demanded. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” In response, Isak smacked the deck with the tube again, leaving a round, waxy imprint on the gray-painted wood. On a ship like Tarakaan Island there was no point keeping the decks holy-stoned bright, like on the steam frigate DDs, and everything on her had been heavily painted the same “dazzle” scheme as Santa Catalina. That would likely become the new standard, Spanky reflected. It didn’t conceal ships from the air as well as a dark gray or blue might, but foamy wakes pointed directly at ships underway, so such camouflage was questionable, at any rate. On the other hand, contrasting geometric shapes of different gray shades definitely made it harder to judge the silhouette and range of a surface target from a distance.
“This here’s the damn deal,” Isak announced, his reedy voice indignant as he thumped the deck once more. Tabby’s division had torn down the shattered number three boiler as soon as it cooled. They couldn’t fix it, so they might as well. And they’d started on number two as soon as Walker steamed for Mahe. It had been secured before it could also fail, but they’d been keeping it as a spare. Number four had been their sole remaining “healthy” boiler. While disassembling the boilers and condensers, they’d discovered a number of things, most significant being the quality—or lack thereof—of some of the tubes Walker received as replacements during previous overhauls. Tubes that were in every boiler of every steamer built in Baalkpan and Maa-ni-la . . . Captain Reddy had fired off warnings via wireless, as well as a demand that the tubes be improved. Alan Letts replied that the problem had already come to his attention and been addressed. To make sure Tarakaan Island had the latest tubes, four brand-new PB-5D Clipper flying boats, already loaded with everything from ammunition to the last reserves of parts for Ben Mallory’s remaining P-40s, had been hastily stuffed with as many standard-length boiler tubes as they could carry. The result had been a grueling 5,400-mile, 40-hour (counting refueling stops) flight from Baalkpan via Sinaa-pore, Andamaan, Madraas, and La-laanti, all the way to Mahe. It had been one of the longest flights Clippers ever made, and was a testament to their design and durability that all arrived without mishap.
Isak didn’t care about that, or that Walt “Jumbo” Fisher’s Pat-Squad 22 had just been increased from three planes, with one down for repairs, to seven. What he cared about, when he and Tabby scrambled aboard one of the planes and stripped the oilcloth wrappings off several tubes with the anticipation of children under a Christmas tree, was what brought this diverse assembly to Spanky immediately thereafter. Spanky sighed. “And what’s the matter with ‘this’ here?” he demanded, nodding at the tube. It was coated with a water-soluble protectant of some kind of wax, cut with gri-kakka oil, by the smell. Isak thumped the deck once more for emphasis and the tube slipped from his grasp to clatter on the deck, nearly rolling into the repair basin below. A civilian ’Cat with yellow and orange fur and a dark brown–and-red plaid kilt lunged to save it. With some fumbling, he held it up, casting a series of hateful blinks at Isak, then turned to Spanky.
“Is nutt-een wong wit it!” he proclaimed.
“And you are?”
“Laap-Zol-Jeks, Chief Ma-sheenits, Baalkpan Boiler an Ma-sheenry Works.” The Lemurian pronounced his title very carefully. “I an’ my mates”—Laap gestured at the others—“flyed all de lon’-ass way wit’ d’ese fine toobs to make sure dey’s in-staalled right.”
Isak’s eyes bulged, and Tabby grabbed him before he could jump on the ’Cat like a grasshopper. “You’re gonna tell me how to install yer shitty tubes?” he snarled. “Why, I oughta install one right up yer fuzzy ass!”
“Shut it, Isak!” Spanky snapped. “Walker may not have a brig, but Tarakaan Island does. So help me, I’ll throw you in it for the rest of the war. Control your division, Lieutenant,” he told Tabby.
“I just did,” she said, shoving Isak behind her, where he sputtered and glared flashing knives at the three other ’Cats.
“So what’s wrong with the ne
w tubes?”
“They’re just like the last ones!” Tabby snatched the offending object from Laap, nearly dropping it herself, and held it up to Spanky. “See? The number painted on it’s the same as the others. The color’s the same”—she pointed it at the late-morning sun for him to peer down its length—“an’ there’s the same fat-aass seam runnin’ the length o’ this so-called seamless tubin’! It’s no daamn different at all.”
“Is diff’rent!” Laap insisted. “We maybe had . . . ish-yoos wit’ some few toobs.”
“Issues!” Isak hooted. “Why, the only tubes worth a shit left in Walker’s boilers’re what’s left of the ones she came with new. An’ they been steamin’ hard for twenty-five years!”
“Shut uuuup!” Spanky ground out once more, looking at Laap. “But he’s right.” He glanced at Tabby, then leveled his gaze on the other Lemurian. “Now, I know there’s always a visible seam in unreamed tubing; it’s the nature of the seam that makes it”—he shrugged—“well, seamless. But I taught the class on how to make the stuff, and it was going fine . . . for a while. More important, I had Tabby’s job before she did, so I’m skeptical too.” Deliberately, he paused long enough to add fresh tobacco from a pouch to the wad in his cheek. “And when it comes down to it,” he continued, “I’m the one you gotta convince more than anybody.” He pointed at Walker. “Captain Reddy’s gonna steam that ship in harm’s way again on my say-so, and if the new tubes ain’t fine and cost a single life, I’ll make you sorry you ever saw a piece of steel with a hole in it. Am I clear?”
Spanky never raised his voice, but it radiated such menacing conviction that Laap gulped and his companions took an uneasy step back. “Der was ish-yoos,” Laap confessed again. “An’ we din’t know why. All naval boilers is de same now, all Yaa-row types, like Waa-kur’s. Only some is more aa-fficcint, wit’ im-poovermints,” he added with a trace of smugness. “But toobs is staan-dard—all same. Den, of a sudden, we start get bad stories; dis ship, other ships, an’ even some . . . in-dust’ral boilers usin’ de same toobs now. Dey gettin’ cracks, when dey’s rolled.” He blinked furtively at Tabby. “Can’t see ’em, hardly, an’ nobody tinks to look, but dey there. We blame the Toob an’ Pipe Division o’ Baalkpan Steel Works. Dey say, ‘No way. Dey all get burst tested wit’ air.’ Toob an’ Pipe blames us fer not rollin ’em right, so we built a test boiler.” He jerked his head downward in a traditional Lemurian nod. “We checked it hydro . . . hydro-saak-tic’ly, an’ it o-kay. Tee an’ Pee says, ‘See? Not our fault.’ So we fired it up an’ raised the pressure to tree fifty pee-ess-ays.” His eyes went wide and he held up his hands. “An’, shoosh! Dey spyoo! De whole goddaamn teeng goes boom!” He shook his head. “We blame Toob an’ Pipe back, an’ dey say dey’s drawin’ toobs just like all’ays, wit’ no shoosh. Dey blame billets from steel mill. Chaar-man Letts finally thowed a fit at buck passin’—whatever dat is—an’ maked ever’body work togedder to sort it out. Go to find out, de mill’s still usin’ Amagi steel—the last teengs it goes to is toobs an’ ord’naance—but dey thought all steel from it was same. Not so. De baatch dey use for bad toobs was maybe gunhouse armor—dey don’t know—but it gots too much carbon, an’ sulfur too, makin’ it too hard an’ brittle to give a good roll.”
“So . . .”
“So, some was fine, an’ should stay fine in low-pressure boilers.” Laap blinked. “For tree hunnerd an’ more pee-ess-ays?” He shook his head very definitely. “No fine.” He waved at the tube in Tabby’s hands. “Dese is made same as all-ways, but wit’ ’proved billets dat make all fine toobs. Same way makes same color, an’ we keep same number for same boilers, but dey is fine!” he insisted. “We test dis lot in anudder boiler to four hundred pee-ess-ays. Make daamn sure!”
Spanky looked at Tabby and saw some of the tension had left her. Isak remained sullen, but no longer had murder in his eye. “I guess the first step to fixin’ a problem is admitting it exists,” he allowed grudgingly. “But you gotta start putting lot numbers on stuff, besides just part numbers, to keep ’em from getting mixed up with the others. Again.”
“But . . .” Laap looked worried. “We aad numbers to numbers, somebody maybe not know dey’s the right toobs!”
Spanky took a deep breath and vigorously rubbed his eyes. “They use lot numbers at the ICE houses for everything that goes in gas engines. They use ’em on ammo too. God knows what else. It’s not a new idea. Did it occur to you—to anybody—that anyone stupid enough to make the bonehead call to paint the same stock number on these has no business screwin’ around with boilers in the first place? No? I hope it wasn’t you.” Laap frantically shook his head. Spanky looked skeptical. “Well, whoever it was probably needs to get his silly ass out in the fleet where he can wonder when he’s gonna get steamed to death because he can’t tell good tubes from bad.” He looked at Tabby and Isak. “I’ll shoot a-ah, polite request off today, for lot numbers on everything they can think of—I promise. It’s really my fault—and maybe Chairman Letts’s too. Should’ve demanded it from the start. But all the first boilers were one-offs when I was riding herd on Naval Engineering and inspecting so much of the stuff myself.” He shook his head, putting his hands back on his hips. “Doesn’t matter. We should’a, but we didn’t. Now we will.”
His gaze focused on Isak. “In the meantime, you’re in charge of rebuilding the boilers. Use these guys”—he nodded at the civilians—“an’ quit bitchin’. Especially to Tabby. I want her focused on the bigger picture. There’s a helluva lot to do and we got no time to spare.” He paused, tilting his head at the civilians. “And don’t kill ’em. Maybe they’ll learn something they can carry back—what it’s like out here for people who have to use what they make.” His gaze settled back on Laap. “Do as you’re told, and I don’t want any bitchin’ out of you either.”
“An if the ‘toobs’ are still shit?” Isak insisted.
Spanky shrugged. “Then you can kill ’em,” he said lightly, but frowned when Laap and the others recoiled in horror. “Jeez, I was foolin’. But there’s nothin’ for it, Isak. Just have to put the boilers back together an’ pressure ’em up. I guess we’ll find out.” He glanced at Laap. “At least chances are we probably have good tubes, if what he says is true. It burns me that there’s likely a lot of bad ones still out there, just waiting to pop like a dropped beer can. Have to warn every snipe in the fleet to keep their eyes extra peeled . . .” His voice trailed off as he tried to think of what else he could do; then he seemed to notice they were all still standing there, staring at him. “Well?” he barked. “Dismissed! Get with it! None of this work’ll just miracle itself done!”
The assembly bolted, and Spanky turned to rejoin the others.
“Not as amusing as we expected, from previous experience,” Rolak stated dryly.
“Nope,” Spanky grumped. “Not very funny at all. I guess it’s inevitable, though. We’ve been damn lucky so many things we’ve cooked up right in the middle of a war have worked as well as they have. Bound to be exceptions.” He shrugged philosophically. “And lots of finger-pointing when there are. Thank God Letts is on the ball.”
“Thank the Maker, indeed,” Keje agreed. “Letts is perhaps better suited for this aspect of being Chaar-man than Adar was,” he added, blinking concern for his friend.
“Maybe,” Alden agreed, “but there’s plenty Adar was better at.” He huffed a laugh. “Taking the sunlight, for one,” he said, then sobered. “Getting along with everybody was another. Letts may’ve done the legwork to put the new Union together, but it was Adar’s dream, and it never would’ve happened without him. Don’t worry,” he told Keje, “you’ll get him back. You and the Skipper’ll get ’em all back.” His neutral expression turned to a frown as he looked back at Walker and envisioned all it would take to get her ready for sea. He knew she was just one old ship, no better suited for what was to come than her new sister steaming off the coast. No at all suited for s
tanding up to the likes of Savoie, one-on-one. Yet she’d come to represent so much to so many; not least of which was her continued survival—even victories!—in the face of overwhelming odds. If she wasn’t exactly the symbol of the Allied cause, she’d certainly become its talisman. And even General of the Army and Marines Pete Alden wasn’t immune to the itchy feeling that they all stood a better chance if Captain Reddy was where he most belonged in a fight: on the bridge of USS Walker. “If we have the time,” he added, his tone turning grim. “That’s what it comes down to. We might still get licked, even if everything goes exactly right,” he qualified, “but we’re licked for sure if we run out of time to get ready.”
CHAPTER 5
////// Aboard USS Santa Catalina
October 26, 1944
A brilliant orange sunset closed a very busy day as USS Santa Catalina steamed past the heavy shore batteries at the mouth of Grik City Bay and into the purpling night. The guns in Fort Laumer were big, heavy brutes salvaged from the wrecked ironclad dreadnaughts near the docks. As observed before, they remained excessively heavy and crudely shaped, but their nine-and-a-half-inch bores, capable of hurling a hundred-pound solid shot clear across the mouth of the bay, had been bored disconcertingly true. Grik gunnery had progressively improved as the war dragged on, and apparently a lot of that had to do with the quality of their weapons. It was just as well they hadn’t been forced to face these in an open-water slugfest like First Madras. That had been bad enough, and boded ill for the future. The Grik hadn’t used anything like the Allies’ primitive but effective fire-control system before either, but they couldn’t assume they weren’t incorporating something similar into the ships under construction or conversion around Sofesshk. The quality of their bores alone meant conventional Allied naval guns retained little, if any, qualitative advantage at close range.
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