Iron Gray Sea - 07

by Taylor Anderson

  “Have number one commence firing!” Keje ordered.

  “The range is still long,” Atlaan warned, “and we have not many shells for the great gun!”

  “We have enough for this fight, and it is more accurate than theirs,” Keje said, “which they are already hitting us with! Besides, if they hit it, we will not be able to use it at all! It is fairly exposed.”

  Atlaan nodded. “Of course.” He spoke into the fire-control tube. “The number one gun will commence firing!”

  Shortly after, Salissa flinched again as the powerful gun sent its two-hundred-pound shell shrieking toward the enemy. It landed short, but it threw up a geyser that dwarfed any other so far that day. Keje stepped back out on the bridgewing for an unobstructed view of the enemy. A haze of smoke and mist still hung where the shell had fallen, and the target had turned slightly to port. One of its stacks was gone, perhaps a victim of the 5.5-inchers. The ships behind it—except for the derelict, now burning fiercely—were also beginning to turn, moving into a line abreast once more, just as they had against Des-Div 4.

  “I think this fight will soon grow more lively,” Atlaan observed with a nervous flick of his tail. “They turn a thousand tails farther out, but they are clearly in range to hit, at least occasionally, and once the turn is complete, they will have many more guns to try it with.”

  Keje paced behind him, his mind racing. He had learned a great deal about his new role in this war and thought he had done reasonably well commanding the carriers of First Fleet. That was only part of his greater responsibility as CINCWEST, however, and in that position he knew he had performed . . . poorly. The looming disaster on land and the mauling of Des-Div 4 was sufficient evidence of that. As much as General Aalden blamed himself for the mess ashore, Keje knew he bore the greater responsibility and deserved the greater blame. He just didn’t have the strategic wits and flexibility to control such a large, diverse campaign—and he’d been taken as much by surprise as any other by the sudden improvements and flexibility of the enemy. Somehow he should have foreseen . . . There had been signs, as early as Saa-lon. He hadn’t ignored them, but he hadn’t taken sufficient precautions either. This was all his fault! Maker above, but I wish Captain Reddy was here!

  Now the enemy was turning west, forming its new line of battle while also shaping a course toward Madras. His few options had just been further limited.

  “Ahd-mi-raal, what are your orders?” Atlaan asked almost desperately. The number one gun roared again, and Keje shook himself. Now was not the time for self-pity. He must be decisive, and he had to get it right. Huge waterspouts straddled his ship, but none hit that time.

  “I do not think they can pierce our sides at this range,” Keje said at last, then gestured out at the flight deck. “But their plunging fire can do great harm. We could turn and present our own broadside, but then the great gun may no longer bear.” Even shortened, the massive number one was so long and heavy that its traverse was limited to barely seventy degrees in the space it occupied. “Besides,” he concluded grimly, “as the distance narrows, Salissa cannot survive trading broadsides with four of those armored monsters for long, and this ship must be preserved, whatever happens here today. We will keep our distance; let our long-range guns do their work!” He paused, considering how best to accomplish that.

  “Slow to two-thirds,” he ordered. “We will let the enemy get ahead of us, then pursue. If he continues on toward Maa-draas, so much the better; we can work our way up from behind, destroying his ships as we advance!”

  Atlaan blinked hopefully and gave the order.

  Keje’s gaze was drawn to the west by a peripheral flare of light. Perhaps ten miles away, toward the hazy dark coast of Indiaa, Captain Tikker and his pursuit ships had intercepted the enemy zeppelins. One had crumpled and was falling toward the sea, trailing a smear of flame and black smoke. With a start, Keje realized that two smaller smoke trails were already tumbling to the sea. The salvo bell rang and the 5.5-inchers roared.

  “What is happening to our planes?” he demanded of Lieutenant Newman, who hurried into the pilothouse.

  * * *

  “Yess!” Tikker shouted as his smoky tracers ignited the hydrogen they’d released from the Grik airship before him and it began to fall within a quickly growing ball of fire. He banked right and pulled back on the stick, lining up another target. Suddenly, he saw one of his planes almost stagger in midair, then pitch downward trailing a thin stream of smoke.

  “Tell them not to get too close!” he shouted to his OC. “They have weapons, some sort of small cannons, remember?” Another Nancy was tumbling down!

  “I tell them,” the OC cried back, tinny, scared. “But I already getting reports these zeps got more little cannons than usual!”

  “What? They can’t carry more cannons if they have their usual bomb load!” His crude sights aligned on his target and he pulled the lever that would depress the trigger on his gun. The plane shook violently while tracers arced into another zeppelin. Something hit his starboard wing as he blew by, beneath an airship he hadn’t had an angle on. He looked out at the wing and saw a frightening number of holes. Another gun from the same source fired at him, but must have missed aft. “Daamn! They do have more guns, and they’re pretty good with them!” He looked back at his target and saw it drooping, but then at least four small guns, all in the forward gondola, fired at him at once!

  “Sheet!” He chirped. A number of half-inch holes appeared in his ship, and something stung his neck. With the detonation of its guns, however, his target literally exploded in flames, falling in burning chunks toward the sea. They must have lit their own gas, he thought, feeling his neck with his fingers. They came away bloody. He took a moment to make sure his engine sounded okay and all the controls still worked.

  “You still back there?” he asked.

  “Yes.” The OC’s voice sounded shaken.

  “They gotta have at least eight little—like, swivel guns—on those things. Maybe more!” he shouted. “Send it!” If each of those guns was loaded with a double handful of half-inch balls, they could throw a lot of metal at his planes that had to get close—and fly steady for a moment—just to fire a single shot. He was through the Grik formation, and he banked left to make another run. “Maker!” he breathed. The sky was filled with fire and long trails of smoke. Zeppelins were falling, engulfed in flames, but at least one more of his planes was spiraling down toward the sea.

  “Cap-i-taan! I only get four rogers, an’ two o’ them say they hit bad! The other ship with maa-sheen gun losing oil pressure. He gonna try to make it to Maa-draas!”

  Tikker was stunned. In just a few short minutes, he was down to only three planes, and there were probably a dozen Grik zeps still headed for Second Fleet! No, he realized, they’re heading for Salissa! “Tell what’s left to keep their distance—don’t bore in! Try to snipe them around the edges!”

  “Ay! But . . . what we do?”

  Tikker blinked a shrug. “We have to bore in. The gun’s in the nose, remember? I’m going to try something different, though.”

  He pulled up, climbing above the enemy, then pushed the stick forward. They can’t have guns on top of those things . . . can they? He hadn’t seen any place for one before, and it was assumed the Grik dirigibles probably leaked at least a little gas all the time. Setting off something that spat a lot of fire up top like that would have to be pretty dumb. A zeppelin appeared in his sights, and he hosed it hard. Even as flames belched from the seam he’d torn, he pulled up slightly and fired at the next in line. Black smoke and rising, burning fragments of fabric engulfed the plane as he eased left. If the second target went up like the first, he didn’t want to fly through the fireball! He broke out of the smoke and barely missed colliding with another zeppelin just off the port wingtip. He blew by so fast and so suddenly that the enemy never had time to fire at him. He looked up as he darted under the airship—and saw something strange.

  He was behind and below t
he formation now, and he slammed the Nancy into a tight, banking turn to bring it back around. Rising from aft of one of the trailing machines, he started to pull the firing lever . . . but waited a moment. He couldn’t see any guns on the aft “bomb” gondola, and he wanted a better look at what he’d seen. Drawing closer, he noticed that the gondola had no floor, at least not a complete one. There was a large rectangular hole in the bottom—and nestled inside, protruding down a bit, was what looked like a really big bomb!

  “Maker!” he mumbled. But that didn’t make any sense! The zeps already had a lot of new weight forward—the guns. Calculations had determined about what the zeps ought to be able to carry, and the added guns had to eat into that. So how could they carry something else that big, unless . . . Maybe they had fewer crew than usual forward. Maybe they weren’t carrying much fuel. . . . And maybe the bomb wasn’t as heavy as it looked. No more time. With his sight in the vicinity of the bomb, he pulled the firing lever. Tracers arced in, and the zeppelin exploded with a force that tossed Tikker’s Nancy away like a youngling’s paper toy in a Strakka wind.

  ArataAmagi

  “No!” Roared General of the Sea Hisashi Kurokawa as ArataAmagi heaved from another mighty impact—and explosion!—aft. There was only one explanation. The miserable apes and their Americans had mounted one of Amagi’s main guns—his guns!—on their stupid, pretentious aircraft carrier! In addition to what the weapon was doing to ArataAmagi, he could hardly bear the horrible, unfair irony. He’d thought he’d already won. The unarmored enemy ship, the last obstacle to his fleet’s conquest of Madras, had seemed to be holding back, letting them pass. That was acceptable. She was not his goal—and she would be destroyed soon enough. . . . He’d expected continuing fire, but also assumed the lone ship had realized how mismatched she was and had essentially given up. He’d been wrong.

  After ArataAmagi’s earlier pounding, he’d moved her to the rear of the battle line to protect her from what he’d already recognized must be Amagi’s salvaged secondaries. The ships that replaced her in the van had taken the brunt of the battering then. He’d already lost two of his precious battleships: Lugk (with its vile Grik name) had, ridiculously, just blown up, and Satsuma was a smoldering, sinking wreck far astern. Now his precious ArataAmagi was being slain—and he was in her!

  A young Japanese lieutenant—Kurokawa couldn’t remember his name at present, and didn’t care—was reciting a litany of damage reports.

  “All three aft guns are out of action, as well as seven broadside guns, mostly aft, but on both decks! The steering engine is damaged, and repair parties cannot reach it for the flooding in the compartment. Boilers seven and eight are wrecked, and there is water in the aft fireroom—and there are fires in the coal bunkers on either side! Casualties are—”

  “The only casualties I care about are those affecting the operation of this ship!” Kurokawa roared. “What do I care for dead Grik!”

  “Sir,” the lieutenant persisted, “some of our people—”

  “Shut up!” Kurokawa forced himself to breathe the smoky air, willing the calm he’d cultured so long to soothe him. “Captain Akera, is there no way to stop this turn, to put some distance between us and that . . . thing that pursues?”

  “No, Admiral,” Akera said. His eyes were fearful, but his voice was flat.

  Kurokawa didn’t notice. “Then instruct our remaining cruiser to close on the port side to take me off. I must transfer my flag to Kongo.”

  “But . . . what of the rest of us?”

  Kurokawa’s dark eyes narrowed. “You will continue to fight your ship, fool! She is your ship, and you have failed her! Failed me! Consider yourself fortunate that you retain an opportunity to redeem yourself in your ancestors’ eyes—and mine! Order the remaining guns in the starboard battery—all guns to fire as they bear! When you are beam on to the enemy, you will stop the engine and fight that ship as long as you are able, do you understand?”

  “I . . . I understand.”

  Hisashi Kurokawa stared at the man a moment longer while the great ship writhed beneath his feet. Finally, he nodded, and strode out of the wheelhouse.

  The young lieutenant looked at Akera, eyes wide. “What will we do, Captain?”

  “What he told us to,” Akera snarled back. “What else is there?”

  * * *

  The OC was screaming while Tikker fought with the stick and rudder pedals to bring his tattered plane under control. He finally succeeded, but he’d lost altitude, and the nine remaining airships had gained considerable distance. He looked down. Just a few miles away, Salissa seemed to be chasing the Grik battleships! Splashes rose around her, but the trailing Grik battleship in the slightly staggered line was on fire aft, and reeling to starboard! The sole remaining armored frigate was steaming toward her, but he couldn’t tell what it meant to do. Maybe it would try to take the bigger ship in tow? The battleship was beam-on to Salissa now, considerably less than a mile from her, when its guns flashed and gushed white smoke, sending more great splashes rising around Tikker’s Home. He was sure some must have hit.

  “Send to Salissa!” he shouted. “These Grik got some kind of huge bomb, I don’t know how, and . . . I don’t think we can stop them!” He pushed on the throttle, but it was already at its stop. He tried to force it even farther, but knew it was no use. He was gaining on the trailing zeppelins, but figured he might get two or three at most before they dropped their bombs. He glanced down in the nose of the plane and horror clenched his heart. He didn’t have enough ammunition left for two or three! He’d be lucky to get one! He pounded his leg with his fist; then a chilling calm flowed through him. He could get two—if he fired very carefully at one—and then flew his plane into the other.

  USNRS Salissa

  Salissa was horribly jolted that time by a succession of heavy hammer blows, and Keje’s heart was torn by the chorus of screams that arose above the bedlam. The range was such that the enemy shot no longer plunged as steeply, and a long section of the flight deck beside the bridge structure had splintered and peeled away. Exhaust gas swirled in the pilothouse from a capricious eddy that carried it up and forward from a pair of punctured funnels. One 5.5-inch gun had taken a direct hit and was knocked askew on its battlement platform. Its crew was either dead or crawling on the deck, wounded and helpless. The crew of the other gun wasn’t much better off. Fragments of the shot or pieces of the first gun had scythed them away from their own weapon. Most of the windows in the pilothouse had been shattered by a blow that fell on the platform above, and broken glass crunched beneath the sandals of the bridge watch as they shook themselves out, returned to their posts, or raced off on errands.

  “Damage report!” shouted Captain Atlaan, lurching forward to peer through the empty window frames. He was bleeding in several places, cut by glass. Keje joined him, miraculously untouched. Before them, the Grik battleship seemed hove to, almost still, silent for the moment while the smoke of her guns and fires drifted downwind. They had to get past that thing so they could continue their pursuit of the others! For the first time, Keje noticed one of the armored frigates—the last, he thought—was churning away from the stricken ship under full sail, her stack billowing black smoke.

  “What’s the status on the great gun?” Atlaan asked anxiously.

  “Preparing to fire!” answered his talker. “They were . . . delayed in their loading by some strikes around them! They have splinter casualties, two serious, and request assistance!”

  “Corps ’Cats and replacements to the number one gun!” Atlaan commanded. Keje looked at him. Salissa was still his ship, his Home, but Atlaan had become her captain of necessity. An Ahd-mi-raal had to worry about far more than the operation of a single ship, and as CINCWEST, Keje had been almost overwhelmed. Atlaan was earning his post well, he thought.

  “Ahd-mi-raal!” cried a signal ’Cat, “Scott is coming up!”

  “She was ordered to remain back!”

  “Nevertheless, Cap-i-taan Cablaa
s-Rag-Lan is steaming to join us. He says in case we need assistance.”

  Keje blinked irritably. He didn’t want to contemplate the possibility, but they might just need it. “Very well, but by the Heavens, tell Scott to stay behind us! I will deal with her cap-i-taan later!” He turned to face forward. Judging by the time that had passed, Salissa could expect another enemy salvo at any minute. He hoped she would survive it. The Grik battleship across their path was getting close! Suddenly, without warning, the number one gun fired and its huge smoke cloud swept back toward the bridge. The wind took it quickly, and Keje actually saw the massive projectile, like a black dot, rise into the sky. The line looked good. He almost lost it when it reached the top of its trajectory, but there it was! Nosing down, down—a large brown-black explosion shrouded in a mighty waterspout convulsed the Grik ship just forward of amidships. Smoke jetted from the forward funnel, then the funnel itself tumbled into the air on a cushion of scalding steam. Some of the Grik guns fired almost simultaneously with the hit, but they only churned the sea a few hundred yards from the ship.

  “She is rolling!” Atlaan guessed loudly. “We have gutted her!” Cheers swept Salissa as the enemy did indeed begin listing radically toward them. Keje tried to imagine the monstrous, glorious hole the great gun must have blasted in the ship, probably just below the waterline. The effect must have been much like the terrible torpedoes Captain Reddy so craved. Tons of seawater would be filling the ship, heeling it ever farther onto its shattered beam. Guns would be breaking loose and crashing across the canting decks and he thought he could almost hear the frantic shrieks of the likely thousands of panicked Grik inside their ironclad tomb. Another boiler went, and the opposite casemate, just coming into view, vomited iron plates, shattered timbers, and gouts of steam.