Iron Gray Sea d-7

by Taylor Anderson

Matt blinked. “Pipe it up,” he said. A big splash erupted close alongside, and there was a crash aft as a fifty-pound shell skated off a wave top and hit the forward funnel sideways, nearly shearing it in two. Another splash exploded close to starboard, and shell fragments whined and peppered the hull. Three guns boomed, following closely on the salvo alarm, and hot orange streaks converged on the enemy destroyer. They exploded short, sending a wall of spray and white smoke gushing over the distant ship.

  “Up fifty!” came Campeti’s excited roar. “Load! Three rounds, rapid salvo fire!”

  Walker was in a gunfight for her life, and Matt was about to talk to the bad guy.

  “This is Captain Reddy of USS Walker speaking,” he said calmly into the mouthpiece. “Do you wish to reconsider my offer?”

  “I am Captain Kurita, of his Imperial Japanese Majesty’s ship Hidoiame,” crackled the harsh, heavily accented reply. It always surprised Matt how many Japanese naval officers spoke some English. Then again, they’d had to for a long time… “Surrender,” Kurita spat the word, “will not happen. True warriors of the Emperor gladly prefer death to such dishonor. Besides, as you have made clear, there is no… incentive for myself and certain others of my crew to do so, in any case,” the Japanese captain continued. “What we did was considered a necessary expedient at the time. We might not have done it had we known then… Regardless, there will be no surrender. You are no cruiser,” Kurita accused. “Your ship is a relic, an antique! You should beg me to spare you!”

  Two very near misses straddled Walker, and Matt nearly lost his footing when the deck heaved. “Range nine t’ousands,” Minnie reported. The enemy begins to turn to starboard!” Walker bucked as another salvo lashed out. Matt glanced down at the fo’c’sle and saw Stites directing the deadly dance of the crew of the number one gun. A shell handler snatched the empty brass casing with gloved hands and another slammed a long, heavy, shiny shell into the smoking breech Stites held open.

  “Not a chance in hell,” Matt barked, “and you have no choice. Your tanker is afire and you have nowhere to replenish. Everywhere you think you might do so is well protected. Even if we don’t sink your murdering ass, you’re about to be stuck, out of ammo, out of fuel, and out of luck-wallowing helplessly until you end up on some strange shore and tear your guts out on a reef!” He laughed fiercely. His blood was up. “And if any of your people get ashore, they’ll be lucky to survive long enough for something to eat them. You have no place to go!”

  Kurita was no longer listening. He’d broken the connection, and Matt slammed the instrument in its cradle on the bulkhead.

  The fight became a drawn-out duel, both ships sprinting and turning to spoil the other’s aim, while closing in an ever-tightening embrace. At six thousand yards, 25 mm occasionally tested the range and sometimes clattered against steel. The sea remained heavy, the wind strong, and in the distance, the burning tanker cast an eerie glow on wet gray paint and dull whitecaps. Now that Hidoiame ’s aft turret would bear, both ships started landing heavy blows on one another like lightweight boxers in a slugfest without any rules. Hidoiame had better speed and firepower-four guns to only three on Walker that would ever bear at once-but the old destroyer’s better, more experienced gunnery was starting to eat her up. Fires burned all over Hidoiame, and a lot of her 25 mm batteries had been shot away. The aft funnel was gone and smoke coursed from a spectacular hole low in the large bridge structure. Other hits had been observed along her hull.

  Matt also had no illusions about what his ship could take, and not only did he have a lot more practice at… bizarre surface actions than his opponent, but he’d been baptized by fires much heavier than Hidoiame could dish out. He’d learned his ship like his own hand, and he controlled that hand like a surgeon.

  Walker was taking a beating of her own, however, mostly from that aft turret on Hidoiame. The forward turret hadn’t landed many hits. Maybe it was damaged. Still, Walker was trailing an oil slick from near-miss buckled plates, and high-explosive shells had made a shambles of her starboard 25 mm mount. A heavy hit amidships had cut off the guns on the platform above the deckhouse from the gun director. They were in local control now, but still getting occasional hits. A blow behind the deckhouse would have taken out the number two torpedo mount if it had still been there. As it was, it buckled the deck and nearly blew the aft funnel off the ship. The fireroom beneath it started losing pressure. Another hit shredded the chief’s quarters and sent the number one gun’s crew sprawling before Stites rounded them up and pushed the half-stunned ’Cats back to their posts. That one came awful close to the wardroom, Matt thought anxiously. Gray was down there now, somewhere in the bow, trying to stop the flooding.

  Cheers and stamping feet rocked Walker when Hidoiame ’s forward turret erupted like a fireworks show spraying from a volcano. Matt knew the turret was designed to blow up, not out, so there might be little internal damage, but the turret was down for the count-and Hidoiame suddenly turned away and started making smoke!

  “We’ve got her!” Matt breathed.

  “Target course is t’ree two seero!” Minnie cried, then paused, listening to reports. “Flooding in forward fireroom! Tabby says it coming from forward-she think the bulkhead’s sprung! She shoring up now. Super Bosun says we taking lots of water forward!”

  “What’re we gonna do, Skipper?” Kutas asked. “They’re running.”

  “Chase ’em!” Matt growled. “Make your course three zero zero. We’ll give the number three gun on the starboard side a chance.”

  Norm nodded. He’d known the answer before he asked. “Making my course three zero zero,” he confirmed. The salvo warning rang, but the guns waited while the ship changed course. When she steadied up on the new heading, the bell rang again and the guns flashed.

  Chief Gray swung the heavy maul against a wooden wedge, trying to force a shoring timber against a sprung hull plate low in the forward crew’s berthing space. Damage from the hit above, in the chief’s quarters, had radiated outward, and he hoped-he prayed-it ended at this plate. The gap was right at the waterline, and the sea sprayed in around the seam with varying pressure, like blood from a terrible wound, as the bow rose and fell.

  “Hold it!” Gray shouted through clenched teeth. “Hold that brace steady, goddammit!”

  “We trying!” the damage-control ’Cats chorused. He knew they were. Other ’Cats darted around him, unhooking racks and tearing them out of the way, and the space was a hell of hammering, yelling, groaning noise; acid sweat that burned the eyes; and a heaving tide of water that flowed across the deck with the motion of the ship. All this was punctuated by the steady salvos of Walker ’s guns, and the explosions of enemy projectiles striking the sea nearby. Shell handlers, mostly Lemurian, but a couple of men, kept up a supply relay through the confusion, bearing shells from the forward magazine, up the companionway, through the wardroom, and up to the number one gun. Gray took a huge, rancid breath and swung the maul with all his might. The gap nearly closed-but a rivet head shot across the compartment and grazed a ’Cat’s forearm, raising a fuzz of fur like a dandelion.

  “Jeezus!” the Lemurian yelped and crossed himself.

  Gray just stared for a moment, then shook his head. He looked back at the repair and saw the flow had dwindled to a gentle surge. “Here,” he said, handing the maul to a big ’Cat shipfitter. “Try to finish it up. But for God’s sake, be careful you don’t knock it out! Goddamn rivets! Spanky was right.”

  Tabasco stuck his head down the companionway. “Tabby need help! Water coming in the forward fireroom! You not hear call?”

  “No, I ‘not hear call’!” Gray shouted. The intercom speaker was sliding across the deck. Something had knocked it off the bulkhead. He called three Lemurians by their Navy names: “Dusty, Sleepy, Poot: Go help Tabby. I’m gonna run up and check on the repairs above, then head aft. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  He ran up the companionway stairs, breathing hard despite his better condition. He was a
touch over sixty, after all, and you didn’t run a lot on a ship… The chief’s quarters had become a maze of twisted bulkheads and supports, dangling cables and conduits, and scattered personal belongings. Besides the dashing shell handlers, a few ’Cats were working there, electrician’s mates, he thought, but there wasn’t much else to do right now. The sea was visible through a gaping hole in the port side and there was no flooding-but water splashed in when the sea slapped against the bow. There was fresh air, however, and he paused a moment to take a breath. The wardroom curtain fluttered behind him, and he stepped through.

  The first thing he saw was Sandra. She was standing beside the wardroom table with the light rigged low so she could see to sew. Sick-berth attendants and corps ’Cats were holding a large mound of flesh on the table while she worked. Earl Lanier had taken one in the gut again, and a large flap of his oversize belly had been laid open. Yellow fat and blood glistened. Wounded ’Cats were on the deck, lying on rack mattresses. Some were covered with bloody bandages, and others were just covered up. SBAs were moving a steady flow out of the wardroom-either to their racks or just out of the way. The ammunition relay did their best not to step on anyone, but they were exhausted and their passage caused an occasional cry.

  “What’re you lookin’ at?” Earl demanded, surprising Gray. The cook was not only conscious, but was watching Sandra sew. He took a large gulp of seep from a brown bottle.

  “Just admirin’ your armor belt, Earl. A battleship’s got nothin’ on you. I bet your belly would stop a torpedo.”

  “Why don’t you get out there and fight, damn you!” Earl roared. “I’m a wounded hee-ro. You let those Jap bastards sink my Coke machine, you’ll be eatin’ scum weenies for the rest of your damn life!”

  Machinist’s Mate Johnny Parks stirred from his mattress on the deck. He had a heavy bandage on his head and Gray noticed Diania was there, trying to hold the injured man down. She still looked terrible-and beautiful, he thought-and seemed to have gotten control of her stomach at last. Most of the SBA women had, he realized. Combat tended to focus one’s attention, he reflected.

  “I’m with you, SB,” Johnny said. “I can’t listen to that fat bastard’s bellyachin’ anymore.” He grinned. “Not that he ain’t got a helluva belly ache!”

  “You stay put!” Sandra ordered Parks. “Your skull may be fractured! Do you want your brains to fall out?”

  Johnny laid back down. “I guess not. Gimme some cotton for my ears, at least.”

  “No. You can’t sleep right now, and with all the seep you’ve had, you might drift off.”

  “No chance o’ that, with that elephant’s ass carryin’ on so.”

  “Why, you…”

  “Hush!” Sandra ordered, and Lanier looked at her with bleary, almost-drunken eyes.

  “Well… you want I should keep the lug awake or not?” Lanier complained.

  Gray lurched through the crowded compartment, headed aft. Sandra stopped him. “How is it going?” she asked. “Is Matthew all right?”

  Gray patted her arm. “Damned if I know.”

  Hidoiame was difficult to see through her smokescreen, but she was visible, and Campeti continued punishing her with the numbers one, three, and four guns even as she slowly drew away. She was faster than Walker, and Matt wouldn’t strain his engines more than necessary in these seas and with the damage his ship had taken. Not yet. The enemy was still well within range. But so was Walker. Matt’s crew cheered again when there was a bright yellow flash and white smoke burst out of the distant black cloud. One of their guns had hit a boiler, no question about it. If that didn’t finish Hidoiame, it had to slow her down.

  “By God! I think we do have her, Skipper!” the scarred, battle-hardened, First Lieutenant Norman Kutas shouted jubilantly. They were the last words he ever spoke.

  A massive geyser erupted just to port, the spray reaching as high as the fire-control platform. A mere instant later, a 5-inch, 51-pound “common” projectile impacted Walker ’s fo’c’sle at the very base of the bridge structure, and 4.1 pounds of Type 0 high explosive detonated. The force of the blast and shrapnel it created surged through the thin steel into officers’ country and slaughtered the wounded that had been placed there, every one. More high-velocity fragments slashed in all directions, perforating the hull and sweeping up through the radio room. Signals Lieutenant Ed Palmer’s chair saved his life, but he was dashed against the aft bulkhead like a rag doll. Everyone else in the compartment was killed instantly. Heavier fragments of the shell itself punched through the pilothouse deck, launching blizzards of strake splinters. A hot shard of ragged steel hit Norm Kutas under the jaw-and didn’t stop until it snatched the steel helmet off the top of his head. Norm fell to the deck without a sound-but there was plenty of screaming on the bridge.

  For an instant, Matt thought he was the only person in the pilothouse to escape injury. He was stunned by the concussion, but the only thing he felt had been a terrible jolt in his feet and legs. There was no fire, thank God, but the air was full of brown smoke and drifting fur. Norm was down, he realized, and he took a step toward the vacant wheel. He felt the pain then. Something was wrong with his leg, and there was a hot poker in his lower abdomen. “Uhn,” he said through gritted teeth, and pressed his hand against his side. Suddenly, Minnie was up, and so were a few others. Minnie lunged for the bright brass wheel, straddling Norm’s still form.

  “The helm don’t answer, Skipper!” Minnie cried when the wheel spun freely and the ship didn’t turn.

  “Inform Mr. McFarlane he has the conn,” Matt managed. “I’m on my way there now.” He tried to turn, but had to grab his suddenly warped chair to keep from falling.

  “Skipper?” Minnie cried. For the first time she saw the blood streak down Matt’s trouser leg and saw how much there was. She dashed for her headset dangling from the aft bulkhead. “Mr. McFarlane, you have the conn!” she cried. “Caap’n’s orders. Corps ’Cats to the bridge, on the double!”

  Sandra’s worst nightmare had come true. Again. Once more, her love, her husband, was laid bleeding before her, and she didn’t know if she could save him. Before, he’d been on a bloody canvas cot on the beach at Aryaal. Now he was on the green-linoleum wardroom table in the middle of a battle on a heavy sea. She had better equipment and help this time, but as she cut Matt’s sopping trousers away, she began to suspect this wound was much, much worse.

  “How bad is it? Gray demanded. He’d raced to the bridge immediately after the explosion and carried the captain down himself. He wasn’t injured, but he wore just as much blood.

  “I don’t know yet!” Sandra shouted in frustration. “Something went in his leg and there’s a lot of bleeding. It may have cut the femoral artery! The way he’s holding his lower abdomen, though, I’m afraid whatever it was didn’t stop in his leg!”

  Matt was still conscious, but his face was pale. “Feels like something burning in my belly,” he confirmed; then he grabbed Gray’s sleeve. “Go, Boats,” he said. “Tell Spanky… get those murderous bastards! We can’t let them escape!”

  “Skipper…”

  “Go! That’s an order.”

  With an anguished glance at Sandra, Gray bolted aft.

  ***

  “No, goddammit!” Spanky stated firmly. His face was black and his beard was singed, and he looked as determined as Gray had ever seen him. A fire around the aft deckhouse was just coming under control as hoses played on the flames. “Japs hit a gas can for the ‘Nancys’ with a wild twenty-five, I guess,” he explained, seeing Gray’s stares. “You musta’ passed Boats Bashear coming aft. He damn near burned to death rollin’ all the depth charges before they blew the ass completely off the ship! I think he got hit by something too.” He shook his head. “We’re done here, Boats,”-he gestured at the column of smoke on the horizon, aft now-“and so are they. We got ’em, don’t you see? The Skipper already got ’em. Even if they don’t sink, and my guess is they will, they got no fuel and damn little ammo left.
They are no longer a threat!” He stopped and hawked out the hard-used tobacco he’d been chewing.

  “I’m exec. I’m in charge. It’s my decision,” he said. “I won’t waste another man or ’Cat like Bashear”- he jerked his head at Pack Rat-“him, or even you, to stomp a roach just ’cuz it’s still got one leg twitchin’. More important, I won’t risk this ship, what’s left of her, and I damn sure won’t risk the Skipper.” He crossed his arms. “We still got a lot bigger war to win, and he’s the one.” He turned to Paddy Rosen. “Reduce speed to one-third-or however she rides easiest. We’ll see. Our surgeon has some delicate work ahead of her, and so do our damage-control parties. Make your course one seven zero. We’re bound for Manila.”

  “One seven zero to Manila, aye,” Rosen replied, his expression carefully neutral.

  Gray let out a breath he must have been holding. “I had to pass the order, Spanky,” he said softly. “I… I’m glad you see it this way. The Skipper’s…”

  “I know,” Spanky interrupted. “He’s special.” He scratched his bearded chin. “Hell, we’re all pretty scarce fellas. Now get back forward and find out what kind of blood the Skipper needs. That Jap can is finished. Let’s make sure Walker and Captain Reddy aren’t.”

  Gray nodded. “What about the crew of that tanker? There might be survivors in boats.”

  Spanky took another chew. “The hell with them. Our survivors got priority, and if gettin’ ’em to Manila soonest would save just one of ours, I’d leave a hundred o’ theirs behind any day.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Battle of Madras 1322

  USNRS Salissa (CV-1)

  Admiral Keje-Fris-Ar studied the oncoming monsters, their dark smoke standing high to leeward. Beyond the approaching columns of smoke was a more distant, grayer pall that marked what remained of Des-Div 4. He couldn’t grieve for them now, not yet. He had to concentrate. He realized furiously that ultimately, he’d made the same mistake as General Aalden: he’d split his force in the face of an underestimated foe. But his had been the greater failure because he’d had even less cause for confidence. His flyers had been telling him about the Grik ships all along, but he really had believed he still held the qualitative edge. Well, maybe he did in many ways, but not in a slugfest like Des-Div 4 had just endured. He would send no more frigates-DDs-against the enemy, but he must take Salissa into battle after all. She alone might still retain one qualitative-ironic-edge over Kurokawa’s malignant creations… the very weapons Kurokawa had once commanded. Keje knew the risk; his ship was not only indispensible to him, but also to the entire Alliance. Still, he had to try. If the enemy could not be stopped, all the troops on Saa-lon and Indiaa would be on their own, for a time, at least, and there was no telling how long they could hold without support.