Iron Gray Sea - 07

by Taylor Anderson

  “We don’t have to cut anything, sir, though I think we should concentrate more on the big ‘Clippers’ here in Baalkpan. With the Maa-ni-los making them too, we can’t crew ‘Nancys’ as fast as we make them. ‘Clippers’ aren’t B-Seventeens, but they’re the closest thing to a long-range, heavy bomber we’ve got. Besides, we need them as transports, to move people around. As for the Mosquito Hawks, now that we’ve done the heavy lifting development-wise, they’re less complicated in many ways than the others and require less than half the materials.”

  “Indeed?” Adar said, but his grin faded. “Mr. Letts, perhaps it is time to reveal the not-so-good subjects we must discuss, so we may determine what to do about them. Colonel Maallory’s rubber is just one of many things at stake.”

  “Yes, sir,” Alan agreed. He looked around the gathering, trying to meet as many eyes as he could, just as he’d seen Captain Reddy do so many times. “We’ve taken some hits,” he admitted at last, “and, as usual, it seems like everything has hit the fan at once. I know it’s impossible, but it’s enough to make you wonder if all our enemies somehow coordinated it. You all know about Mizuki Maru by now, and the threat Hidoiame represents? Well, the Skipper and Walker will try to deal with her on their way back here.” He grimaced. “I wish the Skipper was already here and the hell with the Jap, but right now Hidoiame’s like a fox in the henhouse—ah, like a skuggik in the akka aviary. She’s got to be stopped.” He took a breath. “What you don’t know, because we’ve kept a lid on it until now, is that not only has the First Fleet Expeditionary force slammed into a brick wall in India, but we’ve got reason to believe things are about to get a lot worse in the west. The Grik are on the move on land and sea. They’ve finally brought their new fleet up, and Keje says it’s a doozy. We have to move everything we can up to Andaman—planes, ships, ordnance, supplies, the works—and we’ve got to make it snappy. No holding back.”

  He looked at Adar. “What makes this a little awkward at this particular time are two other things that just came in. The elements of Second Fleet have rendezvoused, and Commodore Jenks has assumed overall command in the east, but reconnaissance confirms that the Doms have occupied at least a part of the Enchanted Isles. It looks like some of the Brit garrison is still holding out, but its relief has taken on even greater urgency, and the situation has become considerably more complicated and potentially more costly. Add to that, we just learned that an attempt has been made on the lives of the New Britain Imperial family, as part of an apparent coup.”

  Nearly everyone cried out and stood at that announcement. Despite an almost universal attachment to Princess “Becky,” all knew how disastrous it could be if the Empire suddenly dropped out of the war. Not because it had large forces in the west yet, but because nearly a third of the Allied fleet and personnel relied on the Empire for logistical support and transport of supplies. Besides, though perhaps not an immediate threat to the western allies, the Doms were a terrible enemy.

  Alan held up his hands. “The princess is safe!” he assured everyone, “and in the care of loyal forces, including our own. Mr. Bradford is also safe and, as you know, has considerable influence with her. He should be able to help her cope with the current emergency. Unfortunately, we don’t know yet if her mother and Governor-Emperor McDonald survived the attempt. They were attending a session of the Court of Directors when some kind of big-assed bomb went off. The wireless station on New Britain went down at about the same time and most communications are currently via a very confused and busy station on New Scotland. Some traffic is getting through to our ships there, repeated by the new Midway station.”

  The great Lemurian Home Salaama-Na, commanded by “reserve” Admiral and High Chief Sor-Lomaak, had been tasked to establish a wireless and fueling station on “Wake” Island, but when it was found to be even smaller than its “other world” counterpart and entirely without water, Sor-Lomaak proceeded to discover that Midway was bigger than expected and did have water, which was necessary for the establishment of any long-term, secluded outpost.

  “Nobody, even Mr. Bradford, knows exactly what’s going on,” Letts continued. “Needless to say, rescue efforts are underway, but few survivors have been discovered so far.”

  It took a moment for the shouted questions and roars of outrage to subside, but eventually, Alan continued. “Clearly, we must lend whatever support we can to the princess and we will, but with the situation in the west heating up, our resources are limited. In response to these various emergencies, Chairman Adar and I have asked Commander Herring to assess the situation in his capacity as the new Chief of Strategic Intelligence.” He gestured at a thin man still seated to his left. “Commander Herring, if you please?”

  Herring stood. He was tall and still gaunt, but his expression was determined. “Most of you don’t know me yet,” he began. “But after acquainting myself with the situation here and abroad as best I can, I have wholeheartedly embraced the Alliance and its cause. I am honored by the trust that has been invested in me, and I plan to do everything in my power to perform the duties asked of me. In my capacity as CSI, I have proposed a list of things I believe we must and can do immediately, along with other actions I consider crucial to prepare and that, I frankly believe, have been neglected.” He paused, frowning in the surprised silence.

  “Let me say now that you have all accomplished amazing things before I ever arrived. I recognize and stipulate that, so please don’t take anything I say as criticism. The actions I must propose to counter not only the immediate crisis, but also to lay the groundwork for long-term operations are the result of independent and, hopefully, objective study. No one here has ever been trained for strategic thinking, and you have done well within the limits imposed on you. But I believe some rather fundamental changes must be made regarding the future prosecution of the war.”

  “Sorta puffed up, ain’t he?” Silva whispered aside to Lawrence.

  Herring continued. “In the short term, as Mr. Letts has said, the most pressing emergency is in the west, and all available assets must be sent to salvage that situation. Hopefully, the circumstances in the Empire will stabilize, but there is nothing we can do here to influence that at present, beyond assurances of support. Even Saan-Kakja is too distant to render immediate material aid—if, indeed, it is required. Consequently, Second Fleet must make do with what it currently has, or what is already in the pipeline for the foreseeable future. Likewise, Captain Reddy is essentially out of the picture for now.” He smiled, a little smugly, Silva thought.

  “We will, of course, continue to value any . . . suggestions he might make regarding the disposition of our forces, but we are on the spot and must ultimately decide those dispositions for ourselves.”

  Letts calmed the angry murmurs that arose over that. Captain Reddy was still Supreme Allied Commander, by acclamation, and Silva wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the new CSI’s tone—and no one had “acclaimed” Herring.

  “Hear him out,” Letts said. “He’s right. The Skipper isn’t here, and he wants us to think for ourselves!”

  Herring nodded at him and continued. “We find ourselves in this current predicament as a result of shortsighted thinking and an acute lack of intelligence regarding not only the strength and disposition of the enemy, nor do we have even the most remote understanding of the situation beyond the world we know. These deficiencies must be remedied. We must push harder to obtain land, aerial, and even seaborne reconnaissance. I know this will be dangerous for those involved for many reasons, but that danger must be balanced against the even greater danger now faced by the Alliance due to less . . . diligent attention to this necessity in the past.” There was more uncomfortable murmuring, but Herring pressed on.

  “I understand an expedition to meet and treat with . . . certain natives on this island has been planned, and I agree it must go forward without delay. Not only will we learn more about what is out there than has ever been known, but we might even secure more valuable allies
with a unique grasp of Grik psychology, not to mention field craft!

  “In addition, I recommend that another major expedition be commissioned to explore the world beyond the Grik and attempt to measure not only the true extent of their influence, but also discover what possible threats lie past their domain. For this I propose the use of the frigate Donaghey, now refitting at Andaman. Her captain, Commander Garrett, has demonstrated uncommon courage and adaptability and the ship itself, as with all dedicated sailing vessels, is not nearly as dependent upon supply—and honestly, offers limited further utility in the combat operations either planned or underway. Commander Garret should take her, and perhaps at least one of the razeed Grik corvettes, or DEs, as her consort and supply ship.”

  “You’re saying Garrett and his crew are expendable?” Ben demanded sharply.

  “I’m saying all of us are, in the grand scheme of things. With that in mind, however, and in light of the recent dreadful losses of men possessing . . . special knowledge, I think it’s time that such men, and even Lemurians they have trained, be interviewed extensively and as much of their knowledge be collected and recorded as possible before it is lost forever.” He looked at Adar. “I know a major effort has long been implemented to copy and distribute the many technical manuals and indeed every book that has survived. But we must go beyond that to capture the experience of men who know how to do the things described in the texts.”

  “Okay,” Ben said, still standing, “maybe that even makes some sense. Why don’t we encourage everybody to write journals or something?” He paused. “But what do you want to do right now?”

  “We must immediately reinforce First Fleet with all air and sea assets at our disposal. As I hear so often, we know nothing of the fleet the Grik and their Japanese allies have constructed. The Alliance has made great strides since last the two forces met. We must presume the enemy has done the same.” He looked at Alan. “I suggest considerable thought be given toward how to counter naval forces even more powerful than our own.”

  “As you may have noticed today, we’ve already given that a lot of thought,” Letts said a little stiffly. “And Lieutenant Monk says Santa Catalina is about ready for sea.” Alan personally believed the newly “protected cruiser” could stand up to anything the Grik could dish out. Besides, Herring’s manner was finally starting to rub him a little raw as well.

  “Of course.”

  “So,” Ben asked, “by ‘all assets,’ do you mean all my modern birds too?”

  “That is what I recommend. You demonstrated today that the new domestically produced aircraft should soon be sufficient to defend the city from any further air raids. I consider those unlikely at present, based on . . . what little real intelligence we have received from the west. In addition, Mr. Letts assures me that small cargos of rubber are on their way as we speak. They should be sufficient to finish a large number of . . . Mosquito Hawks.”

  Ben looked at Alan and Adar. “If all my P-Forties are going, I’m going too,” he stated forcefully.

  Alan shrugged, expression troubled. “I’ll update the movement order and start the wheels rolling to increase the planned support.”

  Silva eased over and whispered in Bernie’s ear. “Sounds like the whole damn war’s headin’ west for now. Any chance I can slip outta my little campin’ trip?”

  Bernie shook his head. “If I have to stay here, you still have to follow your orders too. The Skipper’s orders.”

  “Okay,” Dennis agreed, nodding at Herring. “But you keep an eye on that guy. Mr. Letts stood up to him, but I think he’s a little brass-blind, if you know what I mean. I ain’t famous for my noodle, but I’ve seen a ambitious politician or two on the stump and in the Navy both.”

  CHAPTER 18

  ////// Eastern reaches of the Fil-pin Sea

  Three days out of Respite

  March 16, 1944

  The honeymoon was over—in every respect. USS Walker, DD-163, was steaming at twenty-five knots on all three remaining boilers beneath puffy clouds and a dazzling sun. The sea was mild and there would be little breeze if not for the ship’s speed, which kept the temperature bearable, at least above deck. Tabby had reported that it was nearing 130 degrees in the firerooms, and Matt had no idea how the furry cats could stand it. They took frequent breaks, drank a lot of water, and shed a lot, of course. Spanky’s allergies wouldn’t even allow him to go down there right now.

  Matt sat in his chair, trying not to brood. His time with Sandra had been amazing, and his heart still quickened at the thought of her. He hadn’t believed it was possible to feel such joy, even now while he tried to hide it, and his memories of the time they’d had were still glowing fresh. But then upon returning to the ship, he’d finally been briefed on all he’d missed. The crew, his officers, his friends had all conspired to keep him ignorant of the various developments; the battles in India, the situation in the east, even the attacks on Princess Rebecca and her family. It was still unknown if Rebecca was an orphan or not. A few survivors had been found in the rubble of the directors’ building, but hope was beginning to wane. And all that time, while all those momentous events were unfolding, he’d remained blissfully unaware.

  He’d actually ranted when he heard. He felt guilty that he’d been so happy while everything everywhere seemed to be falling apart, and he took it out on Spanky and the Bosun more than anyone. They’d been most responsible for keeping him informed, and they’d consciously decided not to. He trusted the people on the scene, but he was profoundly frustrated that he and his ship were so remote from everything that had occurred, thousands of miles from anywhere they could have been of assistance to anyone. That was bad enough. But by keeping him incommunicado, he hadn’t been involved at all! Spanky had assured him that if anything had come up that really needed his input or permission, he would have been told, but that didn’t make him feel any better—or better inclined toward the conspirators.

  Spanky had been somewhat contrite but defiant that he’d done the right thing. Matt had needed a real “liberty” more than anyone on the ship, he’d argued, particularly under the circumstances. And what could he, or any of them, have really done? Walker couldn’t go anywhere until her stopgap repairs were complete. She damn sure couldn’t tangle with Hidoiame until then! She needed the rest at least as much as her skipper. Even now, neither, in his view, was in top shape. Walker still needed a real yard and a dry dock. The snipes were back to using “baling wire and gum” to keep her at twenty-five knots!

  Chief Gray had listened to the harangue in silence, then finally shrugged.

  “So, bust me back to third class,” he’d growled defiantly. “Wouldn’t be the first time, and maybe I’d have more to do. Boats Bashear’s shaping into a good chief bosun, and mostly I just twiddle my thumbs.”

  Matt rounded on him then and promptly made him the assistant damage control officer. Damage control was the first officer’s job, but in addition to his other duties, Norm was so busy teaching navigation to the ’Cat QMs (and anyone else who cared to sit in on the arguably heretical—to some—sessions), that he’d been stretched by teaching and running the essential damage-control drills. If anybody knew every aspect of damage control, Chief Gray did.

  Matt felt a little better now, sitting in his chair and sipping Juan’s monkey joe, but he couldn’t help brooding over the fact that he—and Walker—were vast, unsympathetic oceans away from anywhere he wished they were. The one consolation was that Walker was finally racing inexorably closer to one place she needed to be, however. Nancys from PatWing 7, newly stationed at Yokohama, had confirmed both Hidoiame and her tanker were on the move at last, apparently searching for a new nest, as they’d predicted. They’d been seen by the light of last night’s moon and their wildly phosphorescent wakes, steaming at about eight knots south-southwest toward the Korea Strait. Phosphorescent wakes, caused by blooming plankton and other tiny creatures, were not new to Matt’s human destroyermen, even if the brilliantly vivid and varying colo
rs on this world were. Lemurians were familiar with the occasional and somewhat regional phenomenon as well, but they’d only recently seen the intensity evoked by the higher speeds and churning screws of modern ships, particularly from the air. The wakes made the enemy easy to spot, and the diminishing, miles-long trails led almost magically to the ships that left them. Such a small, unexpected bonus now gave Matt a huge advantage over Hidoiame, at least at night, and he hoped the enemy hadn’t recognized it.

  He suspected that the murderers would avoid the Fil-pin Lands, knowing by now they had enemies there. That left a possible run across the Yellow Sea, maybe to Tsingtao or somewhere in that vicinity, but Matt doubted it. A run down the coast of China would put them briefly closer to the Fil-pin Lands, but ultimately beyond what they must think was the center of activity for these new enemies of theirs. They couldn’t have any idea of the true scope of the Alliance . . . could they?

  Hidoiame’s tanker was the key. If she limited the Japanese destroyer to eight knots, Matt could drive Walker at her best possible, groaning speed, and refuel at Chinakru’s Samaar, where he also expected Saan-Kakja to have another Nancy available for him. With his own scout plane, and those provided by the patrol wings on Formosa and in the Fil-pin-Lands, he hoped to catch Hidoiame in the vicinity of the Formosa Strait.

  “Permission to come on the bridge?” came a very welcome voice behind him. Sandra had never asked permission before, but things were . . . different now.

  “Um, sure,” said Chief Quartermaster Patrick “Paddy” Rosen, with a quick glance at Captain Reddy. He had the deck and the conn. “I mean, permission granted.” The redheaded kid had been S-19’s quartermaster and had assumed the chief’s spot on Walker when Norm became first lieutenant. He was a good navigator, and nearly as good a teacher as Norm.