“New?”
“Ay, Cap-i-taan. From Mr. Saan-dison in Ord-naance.” He fished in his belt pouch and extended a letter. “This is from him to you. I would have left it for you had we already off-loaded and sailed for New Bri-taan Isles, but may-be you look at it now?”
Wordlessly, Matt took the letter and read.
To: Captain Reddy, CINCAF, HCAC, and CO USS Walker (DD-163)
From: Lt. Cmdr. B. Sandison, Acting Minister of Ordnance
Dear Skipper,
I don’t know if this will find you, but if it does, I hope it finds you well and already on your way home. You’ll be glad to hear that we’ve finally solved the guncotton issue and I’m really kind of embarrassed how easy it was once we quit trying to make it so hard. Evidently, cellulose is cellulose, to a larger degree than I had imagined. Anyway, we now have some four-inch-fifty shells I think you’re going to like. I won’t go into all the tech stuff here—some is stenciled on the crates and there’s more for Campeti in an insert pamphlet—but basically, pressures look good (17.4 tons). I’m sure glad we didn’t fork over the copper rods for making the pressure disks! Who knows what kind of “copper” they are, and how to duplicate it! We tested the shells in Old Number Four, as we call her (she’s shipshape again, by the way), and S-19’s deck gun. I’m happy to report that the trajectories matched book specs. There’s still something screwy with the burn rate or the alloy we’re using for the brass shells is a little off, because sometimes (around 10 percent) they split, but no chamber damage has been observed.
The projectiles aren’t armor piercing—what’s out there to pierce?—and we stuck with the old, specified 1.1-pound black-powder bursting charge, but the projectiles are the proper 33-pound iron with brass bearing bands. They shoot straighter, hit harder, and pack nearly the same wallop our old HE did. I think you’ll like them.
I’ve sent close to a full load out with Lieutenant Raada-Nin. He has orders to leave half at Respite and take the other half to Scapa Flow if you don’t meet. More are already at Manila, along with all the specs to start production on them, as well as the Jap secondaries scattered around.
Other projects are proceeding in every department, and I hope to have some very pleasant surprises for you soon.
Respectfully,
B. Sandison
Lt. Cmdr.
USNR
Still without speaking, he handed the letter to Sandra, who scanned it incredulously. “So?” she demanded harshly, tossing the sheet toward the Bosun. “What difference does that make? Maybe you’ve got better ammunition now. What chance will that give you?”
“An even chance,” Matt replied, “and that’s better than usual.”
“Even,” Sandra snorted. “Right. That’s like saying an old man is ‘even’ with a teenager because he can spit just as far.”
“Lady Sandra!” Emelia gasped. She was not above such disputes with her husband, but never like this, in front of others, and she was keenly aware of the presence of all the Imperial men—something Sandra seemed to have forgotten.
Sandra suddenly looked around at the uncomfortable or disapproving stares, and realized with sick certainty that her outburst had doomed her cause. If only she’d waited, tried to reason with Matt in private, she may have stood a chance. But now she’d backed him into a corner, in front of men—their allies—who would think him weak if he conceded to her . . . and they could not think the Commander in Chief of All Allied Forces was weak. The Lemurians would understand how crazy it was for Matt to risk himself and his ship like this unless the situation was utterly desperate. The whole Alliance could crumble if something happened to him; he was still the primary unifying force. But as much as she knew the Imperials respected and honored Matt as a warrior and even as the savior of their country, they had a strong emperor again, and a country with a long tradition of unity. They just wouldn’t get it yet, wouldn’t think that way. . . . It was then that she caught the very distressed expression on Ambassador Forester’s face. Or would they? She thought.
“The young lady may have a point, you know,” Forester said in a soothing tone. “Granted, her outburst was . . . unseemly, but the traditions of the Americans are different from ours and it is understandable if she is upset. We were discussing her wedding just a short time ago, after all.”
Sandra’s ears burned at the thought they would believe that was her primary motivation, but she kept her mouth shut.
“I know little of Walker. Her design is foreign to me. But even I can see that she has suffered serious damage that cannot all be repaired here. Is it wise to risk her and her brave, valuably experienced crew to destroy a single ship?”
“No,” Matt himself agreed honestly, “but wise or not, I don’t see a choice.”
“Keep sendin’ planes after her. Bomb her to scrap, I say,” said the Bosun.
“And lose how many? Six already tried, and four were lost without even scratching her paint. That’s eight precious flyers we can’t afford to lose.” Matt shook his head. “Walker’s more important to me than to anybody, but in many respects, this war has passed her by almost as thoroughly as our war against the Japs did. She’s not going to decide this one either, Boats. Not by herself. Lieutenant Tucker’s right about that. Sure, she might as well be a battleship in a surface action against what we’ve seen, but air power will most likely be the tipping point. In the meantime, though, it’s not even close to ‘even’ for whatever Hidoiame runs into. Apparently, not only did she destroy Mizuki Maru, but two feluccas and a frigate. That’s close to seven hundred people she’s killed, beyond her previous . . . atrocities.”
“One of our big carriers with Amagi’s secondaries could take her,” the Bosun speculated.
“If it could draw her in,” said Chack, “but it would never catch her. An entire wing of ‘Naan-cees’ could overwhelm her defenses and probably sink her. . . .”
“But the losses would be terrible,” Matt repeated, “and the question’s moot anyway. Saan-Kakja’s building two more flat-tops for deployment to the east, but though they’ll be heavily armed with conventional weapons—muzzle-loading cannon, and big ones too—they’re still limited to a couple of thousand yards, tops. Besides, neither of them will be ready for sea sooner than three months from now. That’s too long.”
“So you’re going to do it,” Sandra stated. It wasn’t a question.
“No choice. I wish we’d been close enough to do it when we first heard about her, but all our major ports and strategic outposts are well enough armed to protect themselves, and besides, we had other priorities.” He shrugged. “And I thought Okada would handle her.” He was silent for a moment, and everyone saw the thoughts colliding behind his eyes.
“Hell!” he said suddenly. “I hate it how things sneak up on me! I just realized that she represents another, more pressing threat I hadn’t even thought of before. She had an oiler in tow when she came through her squall—or whatever it was—so we’ve been thinking she’d just hole up. But what if the oiler wasn’t full? What if she’s starting to run low on fuel, or what’ll she do when she does? The longer she’s on the loose, the sooner that’ll happen. If she’s based where we think she is, she can’t even drill for oil like we did because there isn’t any there. She can’t take it from any of our facilities or set up shop nearby without us knowing it . . . and she can’t even know everywhere we are!”
Matt’s face turned even grimmer as he looked around the table. He saw Chack blinking furiously in thought.
“That means this bad Jaap will have only one other way to sustain himself, at least in the short term,” Chack murmured, his tail swishing behind him.
“Right,” said the Bosun thoughtfully. “She’ll have to go after our ships like a g—dad-blasted pirate! Take oil from the steamers, probably the food and supplies from other ships in the pipeline, headed either way. She might already be doing it!”
“That Jap tin can’s a major threat to our shipping lanes, all around the Fil-pin lands, a
t least,” Matt confirmed. “With her range advantage and speed, she might as well be the Graf Spee!”
“And us without the old Exeter to chase her down,” Gray agreed, oblivious that most of those present had no idea what he was talking about. He remembered when he and his captain had watched the Japanese sink the famous British cruiser, almost effortlessly.
“Yeah . . .” Matt’s sigh was almost a groan. “This Hidoiame can cripple our overall war effort, on both fronts, whether she’s become Kurokawa’s stooge or not.” He paused. “Lieutenant Raada-Nin, would you mind taking Chief Gunner’s Mate Stites out to look at these new shells?”
“Of course not, Cap-i-taan Reddy.”
“Good. Silva, go with ’em. Pick up Campeti on the way. We’ll have to test them, obviously, and recalibrate the gun director, but I want to know what all of you think immediately. Ask Spanky and Tabby to join us up here as well.” He looked around the table, his gaze fastening on Governor Radcliff. “I don’t mean to impose, sir. If you’d rather I go back to my ship . . .”
“Absolutely not! No imposition at all. Battles are complex things, I’m told, and though I’ve no notion how to fight one, perhaps I can learn a bit about preparing for one, at least.”
“Thank you, sir,” Matt said sincerely. “And if you or your officers have any questions—or suggestions—I’d love to hear them.” He looked at Sandra then and saw her desolate expression. He’d called her bluff and she’d backed down, as he knew she would. He actually agreed with many of her arguments . . . and maybe his judgment was affected? He was tired; everyone was, and they’d desperately needed this . . . respite. He could also tell that she knew he was right as well, however. Particularly as the new threat sank in. She never would have retreated otherwise. Not for the first time, the two absolute necessities they advocated were irreconcilable. But this time, for the first time, he was afraid it might tear them apart. He longed to hold her, reassure her, and wished they could take some time alone. Maybe later, if she’d allow it. For now, he had to plan. So did Sandra, it seemed, because Emelia Radcliff suddenly rose and tugged her by the hand.
“You men may draft your war,” she said a little harshly. “Lady Sandra and I will try to salvage her wedding—if it is still to occur at all.” She stared hard at Matt, and though he could tell she was angry, he was surprised to get the impression she wasn’t only mad at him. Sandra wouldn’t—couldn’t, he thought—meet his gaze. “I presume you won’t be steaming away again at first light, Captain Reddy?”
“No, ma’am,” Matt replied quietly. “We couldn’t if I wanted to. We’ll have to remain here several days, at least.”
“Gomez!” Governor Radcliff suddenly called. “You may clear away the debris of our meal now. And do bring brandy, if you please!”
CHAPTER 6
////// Respite Island
March 2, 1944
Shockingly well-crafted, almost furniture-grade wooden crates of dazzlingly polished (four each) four-inch-fifty shells came aboard in the early-morning light and were shifted to the magazines fore and aft. Campeti crouched beside one such crate, the lead-painted lid prized off, shuffling thoughtfully through a sheaf of pages. Stites was poking around in the cluster of carefully swaddled, white-painted Baalkpan bamboo tubes protecting the ammunition, and Silva sat on the deck with one of the heavy, gleaming, fixed cartridges on his lap, fingering the waxed-paper seal at the nose of the projectile where the similarly carefully shipped fuses would be inserted. They were surrounded by nearly the entire ordnance division, as well as many onlookers.
“Looks like a sculpterin!” Silva said, beaming. “And we don’t even have to put ’em together.”
“Prob’ly don’t trust us to,” commented Stites.
“Yeah, this reads like a novel,” Campeti agreed, waving the spec sheets. “It looks like ol’ Bernie’s done us proud, though. Get a load o’ this! He’s detailed everything they put into these beauties. There’s bagged—he calls it ‘Explosive B,’ for ‘Baalkpan,’ or maybe ‘Bernie’!—charges in the shells on top of a priming charge.” He chuckled belatedly. “Bernie bullets! Anyway, he swears they’ll fly like they’re supposed to. Now I can scrape my paint markers off the gun-director dials!”
“Quit screwin’ around with that ammunition out here,” Gray roared, suddenly surging through the gaggle with Bashear in tow. He stopped and saluted when he noticed Campeti for the first time. “Sorry, Mr. Campeti. We didn’t know it was you playin’ with dangerous explosives on our deck.”
“Don’t apologize, SB!” Campeti said sheepishly. It hadn’t been that long since he’d been a chief, and the Super Bosun’s word was still law as far as he was concerned. “It’s my fault. I just couldn’t wait to see what was under the Christmas tree.” He turned to the others. “You heard the man. Silva, put that thing back in the tube and secure the crate. You other guys, get the rest of this stuff stowed away. Stites, get a count on what we have to offload to make room for all this. I know it’s weird having too much ammunition for a change, but we just have to cope.”
The ordnance strikers snatched crates and took off, blinking rapidly, and the onlookers scattered before Gray or Bashear could think of more duties—like chipping paint—to keep them properly occupied. A strange sound froze them in their tracks, however, and most stared up at the sky, shading their eyes. With excited shouts and chittering, they began pointing into the air, and many crowded toward the starboard safety chains to gawk. Wordlessly, Gray and Bashear joined Campeti as he followed suit. Soon, most of Walker’s crew was lining her starboard rail, watching with the awkward amazement of children allowed through the tent flap of the traveling freak show for the very first time, while two lumbering behemoths passed overhead and began a banking descent toward the bay.
The aircraft were obviously the promised “Manila Clippers,” and they were . . . quite a sight. They were the first real departure from the initial aircraft designs the Alliance had put in production. Nancys had a single, central-mounted “pusher” engine, while the bigger “Buzzards” had been built along the same lines, with an extra pair of outboard engines. But the “Clippers,” or PB-5s, had four larger, more powerful versions of the Wright Gipsy–type power plant that had become so ubiquitous, mounted atop a much bigger, broader wing attached to the top of a deeper, longer fuselage with an enclosed cockpit. Instead of wingtip floats, there were bulbous, aerodynamic protrusions on each side of the fuselage to provide stability in the water.
Even Captain Reddy was not immune to the excitement, and he stepped out on the starboard bridgewing with his binoculars. Looking through them, he caught his first glimpse of the latest thing in long-range aircraft on this world.
“Holy smoke,” he muttered appreciatively, adjusting the focus. He suspected that the contraptions were actually a little bigger than their old, lost PBY, while still lighter and possibly even stronger, with their diagonally braced and laminated bamboo-and-fabric construction. They sure looked more robust than a Nancy, although the high, exposed, forward-facing engine mounts appeared a little delicate.
“Big suckers,” Spanky said beside him. “Ugly, though.”
“How can you say such a thing?” Matt demanded with a grin, watching the morning sun wash across the blue-and-white-painted planes as they lined up for their approach, maintaining their somewhat gangly-looking formation. “Ben say’s they’ll carry ten passengers—or almost a ton of bombs! Maybe they’re not B-17s, but that makes them beautiful to me!”
“Why send two of ’em? We’re not even sending ten people.”
“Insurance. One is carrying extra fuel and parts. It’ll also be there in case the one carrying passengers has to set down. They’re pretty important passengers, you know, and this is their longest flight to date.”
“Sure. Say, that reminds me. You still sending Silva home? What with us maybe—hopefully—catching that Jap tin can. He’s mighty useful in a scrape.”
“I know, but he goes. Adar really wants his ‘expedition,’ a
nd it’s a good idea. It’s also liable to be dangerous as hell, and Silva likes Cook. He’ll take good care of the kid. I know we don’t have a lot of guys left who’ve seen action against a modern opponent, but Campeti’s got Stites, and with Silva helping train them, the gunnery division’s in good shape.” He grinned. “Besides, if we let him tag along, we’ll never get rid of him, and the expedition’ll start without him. Remember the last time he was supposed to get on a plane in Maa-ni-la? He gave them the slip. Most of the yard workers familiar with Walker are in Baalkpan, but I’ll put her in the Maa-ni-la dry dock if I can, and we might be there for a while.” He chuckled. “You have to give the devil his due; Silva knows how to stomp all over the line without—exactly—crossing it. Better to get rid of him now, while I can watch him get on the damn plane.”
The planes thumped down on the still water almost in unison and began motoring closer to the dock.
“Larry likes Cook too,” Spanky said, referring to the Grik-like Sa’aaran. “I bet he’d blow if he thought Silva was going to try to skip the flight. Next to Princess Becky, I think Silva’s his best friend, but he’s got his own people to worry about now. I know he’s hoping to recruit more . . . lizard folks to join Chinakru’s new colony on Samaar.”
“Probably,” Matt agreed, as the big planes wallowed toward the pier—and the hundreds of spectators gathered there.
“Speaking of passengers,” Spanky said, then hesitated. He saw Matt looking at him expectantly and forged ahead. “Uh . . . what are you going to do with Lieutenant Tucker?” He suddenly felt his face heat. “I mean, uh, after tonight, damn it!” Spanky took a breath. “Are you going to send her home too?”
Matt glumly returned his exec’s gaze. “No, Mr. McFarlane,” he said in a formal tone. “Despite the imminent change in her . . . marital status, the Nurse Lieutenant will accompany us in search of Hidoiame. She’s been Walker’s medical officer, and there are no competent replacements currently on hand.” He took a deep breath and looked back into the pilothouse before speaking in a lower tone. “I had to make a deal, damn it. Since the wedding will be a hurry-up affair, and the honeymoon will consist of two days in a beachside hut—while you, Commander McFarlane, do all the work necessary to get this ship underway—I had to bend the regulation about married personnel aboard the same ship. Technically, she’s already been transferred back to her duties in Baalkpan, but considering the very real possibility we may sustain casualties, she’s ‘volunteered’ her medical services for however long it takes for her to report.”
Iron Gray Sea: Destroyermen Page 11
