“You . . . concerned at La’rence?” Oolak asked.
“Concerned? Me? Nah. Little turd wouldn’t be worth thinkin’ about, he didn’t hang around buggin’ me all the time.”
“He hangin’ around you kill Hidoia’e Jaaphs ’ith Khonashi, ’ith King Scott.”
“You were there? Well, sure. I didn’t say he hadn’t been doin’ it awhile.”
“You let he, he let you. You . . . ’riends.”
“Maybe. So?”
Oolak bared his wicked teeth in a grin. “So nothing.”
Silva tensed. “Look. They’re makin’ their move.” Lawrence and his companion were walking to the mushroom vent, passing through busy Grik preparing the ship to get underway. The Khonashi acted like he was checking the vent, making sure the cover was secure, when he was really poking under it to check for mesh. Lawrence was sniffing around the edge, but then reached in the bag slung over his shoulder. A Grik Hij officer suddenly stopped in front of them, shouting something. Lawrence nodded, talking back, but the officer only got more agitated, gesturing at the bag. Lawrence, still nodding, pulled his hand out—with a pistol—and shot the Grik officer in the face.
“Crap! That’s done it!” Silva snapped, and fired. Two Grik fell together when the big, 450-grain bullet punched through one and killed another. Oolak fired too. Suddenly, Grik were taking cover behind the bulwarks, ignoring the saboteurs, thinking all the fire was coming from shore. Lawrence and his companion each seized a pair of grenades from the pouch, pulled the pins, and stuffed them under the lip of the vent. Then they ran. They made it all the way to the gangway before the apparent captain rose, shouting and pointing a pistol of his own, and shot the Khonashi in the back. He fell down between the ship and dock with a splash. Lawrence hesitated, looking back, then bolted. Silva had already reloaded, and raising Lawrence’s rifle, quickly shot the officer. The man tumbled back, but popped off five rounds as he went down. Lawrence stumbled but kept running.
The grenades went off. The top of the mushroom vent blew off and twirled high in the air like a huge, flying hubcap. The rest of the vent and a fair portion of the fo’c’sle deck followed in a spray of splinters. For an instant, that was it. Then a gout of flame roiled up from the gaping hole and pandemonium broke out. Grik sailors and a few Japanese surged for the gangway, but it quickly clogged and few could pass—particularly after Silva snatched his Thompson and stitched the packed sailors with a full twenty-round magazine. Flames raced up the tarred rigging of the foremast and caught the brailed-up sail. It didn’t matter. Every vent and seam was already spitting fire. Lawrence reached the burned-out gun pit, gasping, starting to limp, and sprawled down on top of them. That was when the surging flames must’ve found a magazine and the forward part of the ship was obliterated in an ear-shattering explosion. Oolak started to look, but Lawrence held him.
“Stay down!” he growled as debris began to fall. Silva rolled on his back and stared up, figuring if anything big enough to worry about landed on them, it wouldn’t matter if they were curled in a ball or not. An entire cannon and carriage crashed to earth just a dozen yards away. “Wuuaaah!” he said, and shuddered. “Wouldn’t o’ mattered at all.” He rolled over. “Where you hit, Larry?”
“In the hiph, here,” the Sa’aaran said, groping for the wound with the clawed fingers of his left hand.
“In the ass, you mean.” Silva snorted. “Lucky.”
“The other, not lucky,” Lawrence lamented.
“Nope.”
Silva pulled a field dressing from a pouch on his belt and tore it open. The new ones had a lacquered wooden tube of polta paste rolled up inside. He opened it, smeared it on the wound, then mashed the dressing on the bleeding hole. “Hold that,” he said, rising and looking at the ship. Amazingly, it was still afloat, the stern nearly intact. But the bow was just . . . gone, down to the waterline, and the whole thing was a roaring, crackling inferno. He sat back and took a chew.
“Hear that?” Lawrence said, stiffening.
Dennis shook his head. “I can’t hear nothin’, buddy.”
“I do. Is shooting . . !” He pointed back toward Kurokawa’s compound. “Lots shooting!” Oolak thought he’d heard some a few minutes before, while Lawrence and the other Khonashi neared the ship, but it lasted only a few seconds and most sounded like Blitzerbugs. There hadn’t been anything they could do at the moment, and figured whatever the girls and their guards ran into, they’d handled it. Apparently not—or they’d found more trouble.
“Wimmen,” Silva sighed, and glanced south. “How far you reckon Chackie’s an’ I’joorka’s guys are?” he asked. “I can’t hear shit.”
Oolak held up one finger, then two. “’Iles,” he said.
“Maybe a couple miles. Huh. An’ there might be Grik runnin’ back this way ahead of ’em.” He shrugged. “Well, I guess our little hootenanny ain’t quite over yet. I got a dooty ta’ finish, anyway. Can you move with that hole in your ass, Larry? Or do we have to leave you here?”
• • •
Savoie slammed ashore at six knots. The engines had been reversed, but just as it takes time to accelerate 25,000 tons to the eight knots she’d achieved, it also takes time to stop it—unless it meets something immeasurably larger and immovable. In this case it was the white sand on the gently sloping beach of Zanzibar. Even then, though Savoie slowed rapidly, she didn’t stop at once as her bow gouged into the sand and rode up toward shore. Few things can remain stationary on any moving object that rapidly quits doing so, and anyone without a handhold went sprawling. Guy wires supporting the aft funnel parted with a sound like cannon shots and whipping metal serpents, and the funnel tilted forward, crashing on the seaplane catapult in a swirling cloud of sparkling soot and smoke. But the sand was soft and loose and the bow had pushed to within a few dozen yards of dry land before it came to rest.
Two hatches dropped open under the number-two turret and battered, bloody men and Khonashi half climbed, half fell into the shaded daylight below. There they sat, panting in what seemed luxuriously cool air. They hadn’t realized how hot it had become in the turret, and the day, already past 80 degrees, felt like half that in comparison. At present, they were alone and Stuart Brassey roused himself first, examining Becher Lange while Gunny Horn watched. The German sailor was in bad shape. Already weakened by captivity, the long night march, and now a serious wound as well, Horn thought he’d probably had it. Their solitude lasted only a few moments before Grik started running past, heading forward.
“What the hell?” Horn mumbled. His lips were broken and he still felt dazed from . . . whatever happened in the turret. He remembered trying to shoot at one of the forward guns, but not much after that. The deck was swarming with running shapes; Grik, for the most part, but Japanese as well, dashing for the fo’c’sle. None paid them any heed and some just leaped over the side, possibly hoping the surf would break their fall and the flasher fish had either retreated from the disturbance of the grounding or already abandoned the shallows for their deeper daylight haunts. Others, more thoughtful, tried to secure lines to stanchions and lower themselves down. Many were pushed over by the crush. Their two remaining Grik—the other was killed when he fell down in the gun pit on his head—scrambled to their feet to join the rest, but Pokey shouted at them. They paused and jabbered back. Pokey spoke again and they seemed to relax slightly. “What was that about?” Horn asked Pokey. Instead of answering, Pokey spoke to Brassey in Khonashi, which the boy captain translated.
“The Grik want off because they expect the ship to sink. They’ve learned to fear torpedoes and no Grik ship can survive them.” He pointed at the last Grik BB rolling on its side, still barely a mile away, and Horn remembered seeing Ellie’s torpedoes hit her. “That only adds to their panic.”
That doesn’t explain the Japs in the mix, Horn thought. They know better. Our torpedoes aren’t that powerful, and even disabled, Savoie
could—probably—soak up several more. Besides, she’s aground and can’t sink even if she fills.
What Horn couldn’t know was that a tipping point had been reached. As far as the Japanese were concerned, Savoie wasn’t their ship, their home. She was a French League ship, filled with Grik. She flew their flag, but even that now symbolized more what they’d lost than what they’d accomplished. The Emperor wasn’t on this world, and Kurokawa—whose mad, single-minded pursuit of personal power and revenge had only led them to misery and grief—could never replace him. The closest thing to home they had was the island they were touching; that they’d been returned to as if fate had twisted the great ship’s rudder. Few knew why they were fighting anymore, but if they must keep on, their home was a better place to die than the foreign ship that had just become a helpless target.
Adding to this perception was the hit in the flank that had opened an engine room and shorted a distribution panel, cutting electricity to half the ship. A well-trained crew would’ve restored power in moments, but Savoie didn’t have one of those. Even cooler heads found themselves in the dark, unable to fight the vengeful old destroyer rushing toward them, already spitting a torrent of machine-gun fire and possibly preparing more torpedoes. That was the final straw that sent most of the Japanese running for the fo’c’sle. Crews around the secondaries were swept down by the grounding and the bullets. Even if their captains returned to their posts, they found themselves with crews that were dead, wounded, or already fled. They fled too, for the bow—and land.
“Well, what did Pokey say to make them stay?” Horn asked.
Brassey shrugged. “He told them the ship won’t sink. Other than that, he said they’re on our side now, and we’re winning.”
“Hmm. I hope he’s right. How’s Lange?”
Brassey’s reply was cut off by the clatter of bullets striking the armored gunhouse in front of them, then a whole flurry of slugs slashing into the Grik and men in their growing hundreds, bunching together on the fo’c’sle.
“I suggest we move to better cover, more to starboard,” Lange said, speaking for the first time since they fell from the turret. “Actually,” he added, standing with great effort, “I have a better idea.” Awkwardly, he pulled the pistol from his waistband and looked at it. Only then, somewhat surprised, did Horn remember they were armed. Lange continued. “Now, in the confusion, strikes me as an excellent time to find Contre-Amiral Laborde. What do you think? I suspect under the circumstances—if we’re not accidentally shot by our friends, of course—we might move fairly freely.”
Horn’s brows furrowed. “Get Laborde. Okay, I’m game. What the hell? But are you up to it? I’m not sure I am, and I haven’t had my arm half chewed off.”
“I will manage that, if nothing more,” Lange said, his pale face tightening in determination. “I have a debt to settle.”
• • •
The throng on Savoie’s fo’c’sle made an easy target, and Walker’s machine guns were mowing them down. Panicked before, even the steadiest Grik and most experienced Japanese sailors threw themselves over the side. Fortunately, there actually weren’t many flashies in the water, and those who weren’t drowned or killed by the fall—or when someone else landed on them—finally dragged themselves to the beach. Most were surprised how many they were. But that left few to defend Savoie when Walker surged in from astern, machine guns still clattering, and disgorged her boarders onto the battleship’s fantail. With her flooding aft and her bow aground, they actually had to jump down onto the huge ship’s charred deck. A surge of water had washed over the fire, and the planks only steamed and smoldered wetly now.
Matt, his Academy sword in one hand, 1911 Colt in the other, led almost seventy sailors and Marines. They’d been quickly organized into six squads of ten, with Matt, Campeti, and Jeek commanding two squads each. Even-numbered squads were Marines, mostly armed with Walker’s ’03 Springfields; odd-numbered were sailors, with Blitzers, Thompsons, and two precious BARs. Walker had stopped shooting and it was eerily quiet as the boarders quickly fanned out around the aft gunhouses. The four huge rifles protruding from them still seemed menacing, even in their immobile silence. With Spanky in command, Walker stood away, but her guns remained ready to protect her people as they moved forward. Matt looked at her for a moment, at all her new damage, and felt sick at heart.
“Can’t keep anything looking nice around here,” Campeti said, guessing his captain’s thoughts.
Matt forced a smile. “No, and we just got her out of the shop, too.” He pointed to starboard. “You take Third and Fourth squads . . .” He stopped. “What the hell are you two doing here?” he demanded when he saw Earl Lanier and Isak Reuben. He’d seen Pam Cross as well, but it was pointless to argue with her—and she had a reason to be there. Isak and Lanier were a different story. So was Petey, coiled around Isak’s skinny neck, looking around like he really didn’t want to be there.
Isak shrugged, and Petey chirped irritably. “You need a snipe who’s been in a big wagon like this to lead a party below,” Isak stated reasonably in his reedy voice. “Hell, somebody might be puffin’ a pipe in a magazine right now, fixin’ to light a fuse. An’ I fought Grik in tight places before,” he reminded.
“An’ I ain’t just a cook!” Earl snapped. “I’m a by-God destroyerman, same as anybody!”
“Cook!” Petey countered emphatically. “Eat!” he added with unusual solemnity.
“Shut up, you! I ain’t just a damn cook!”
Matt shook his head. If Lanier was arguing with Petey, something had him extra touchy. “Fine,” Matt told Isak. “You’re right. You take Fifth and Sixth squads, and clear her out belowdecks. Chief Jeek, go with Mr. Campeti instead.” He looked at Lanier. “You go with Isak—if you can keep from killing each other.”
Isak glared at Earl, still mad about a certain episode with another pet . . . “I won’t kill ’em,” he mumbled, “but he’s bringin’ up the rear. Ship keeps floodin’, we’ll all drown, he gets his fat ass stuck in a hatch.”
“Third and Fourth squads will sweep up the starboard side with Mr. Campeti and Chief Jeek,” Matt repeated. “First and Second’ll go with me to port. We’ll meet on the bridge, clear? Nurse Lieutenant Cross, you’re with me as well. Let’s move.”
“Ay, ay, Skipper.” Campeti led his squads to starboard, between the gunhouses.
“Pack Rat?” Matt gestured the Lemurian gunner’s mate Pak-Ras-Ar and his BAR forward. “First squad, take point.”
Not all of Savoie’s crew had abandoned her, and some, Japanese and Grik, retained very old-fashioned views about fighting to the bitter end. As soon as they mounted the companionway alongside the number three turret, they came under fire from forward, among the remains of shattered boats, launches, and the toppled funnel. Musket balls blew splinters from the deck and 6.5 mm Arisaka rounds cracked past. Pack Rat hosed the boats with his BAR and they charged forward, shooting as they went. Two ’Cats spun and fell, helmets clattering and rolling away. Pam grabbed a sailor to help her drag the wounded under cover. “Go!” she shouted. Matt, Pack Rat, and seventeen ’Cats went. A man and two Grik lunged from behind a large locker, bayonets leveled. Matt shot the man with his .45, but both Grik pinned a screaming ’Cat against a bulkhead before they were shot and bayonetted down in turn. More fire came from around the funnel and a fierce fight erupted to starboard when Campeti’s sailors opened up with Blitzers. Another ’Cat fell to a shot from the superstructure.
“Half the Marines take cover and stay here,” Matt shouted. “Watch for snipers up high and keep us covered.” They pushed on under a withering exchange of shots. The forward funnel loomed, and they clattered up the closest companionway. Six ’Cats followed Pack Rat to the next level while Matt and the rest covered Campeti and Jeek, who’d been slowed by a mad rush of two dozen Grik and Japanese.
“Did you see Pam?” Matt yelled at Campeti as the gunnery officer ch
arged up the matching starboard companionway.
“Aye, sir. I left two more riflemen with her. We had some wounded too. These Jap-Grik bastards’re fighting nuts.”
Pack Rat’s BAR hammered above, spilling Grik from the upper levels. Hot brass showered down. “Let’s go!” Matt urged.
The battle for the forward superstructure turned into a chaotic nightmare, like fighting through a mazelike jungle gym with enemies around every turn. To the Marine marksman, the analogy was probably even more apt, Matt thought, as bullets whaanged off the rails from above and below. We must look like a bunch of monkeys fighting through a huge steel tree. One thing quickly became clear: for whatever reason, whether to compel any remaining League officers or defend against Grik insurrection, here was the core of Kurokawa’s last-ditch support on the ship, and their opponents were increasingly Japanese. Fortunately, though surprisingly well armed, they didn’t seem to have any automatic weapons or grenades. The BAR, Thompsons, Blitzerbugs, and ’03 Springfields that picked off those who exposed themselves to fire down on the assaulting squads finally crushed the defense.
The price was high, however. Another five ’Cats were killed and eleven wounded. Campeti took a 6.5 slug through his forearm, probably breaking the ulna, but quickly wrapped it and pressed on. That delay was probably why Matt, his uniform now grimy and spattered with blood, was first on the bridge. He approached the pilothouse with his battered Academy sword at arm’s length, probing, freshly loaded Colt held back, elbow bent, sights clear in front of his eyes. He’d discovered that no one could resist taking a whack at the sword as it came around a corner, making them an easy target for the .45. Pack Rat, Campeti, and Jeek crowded in behind him, trying to squeeze past and protect him, but when they saw what awaited them through the final hatch, they knew their fight was over and couldn’t rival what had happened here.
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