Iron Gray Sea: Destroyermen

by Taylor Anderson

  “Of . . . of course, General of the Sea,” Akera said, “but the enemy will see where we are going. They will have time to prepare!”

  “Excellent!” Kurokawa barked.

  Aboard USS Salissa (CV-1) “Big Sal”

  “So, what do you think?” asked Ahd-mi-raal Keje-Fris-Ar, CINCWEST, from a simple chair in the large ready room, or pilot’s wardroom, aboard Salissa. Captain Jis-Tikkar sat across from him, as did nearly two hundred pilots, OCs, and senior support personnel. Sandy Newman and Kathy McCoy were the only humans in the compartment. The ready room was still mostly illuminated by lamplight, but a single, globular, incandescent lightbulb dangled from a chain-reinforced socket in the center of the compartment, its glare harsh. Soon, all Salissa’s lights would come from “bulbs”; they were safer and used the electricity the ship produced in abundance. But the light lacked the soft normalcy of lamps.

  Tikker was clearly exhausted, and if the “big board” hadn’t been there on the long bulkhead to remind him, he wouldn’t remember how many sorties he’d flown. Lemurians usually wore as little as they could get away with, but the pilots had taken to wearing their flight suits all the time. Not only did they need them in the air, but it set them apart from “ordinary” People in ways perhaps similar to the old clan structure. Tikker’s flight suit was soiled and stained, and crackly with dried, foamy sweat.

  “I think they are licked in every respect but the one that matters most,” Tikker replied with a toothy yawn. “We have destroyed most of their smaller steamers and all the Indiaa-men we could find, but nothing we do seems to faze the iron-clad battleships.” He nodded at Sandy, who’d coined the term. “They alone, and six of their smaller steamers, continue on as if they have won, and they are no longer groping in the dark for us; they are clearly bound for south Saa-lon.”

  “They can’t find us, and have given up trying,” Keje surmised. “They cannot know we are faster than they, at any rate.” He considered. “They know we must have forces at Colombo, but do not make for there. They may know we have a base at Trin-com-lee, on east Saa-lon—but Colombo would be the closer, more logical objective. To me, this change of theirs can only mean they intend to round Saa-lon and threaten Maa-draas—or Andamaan!”

  “I don’t see how they can even know about Andaman,” Newman objected. “They haven’t acted like it, anyway. Elements of their big bombing mission that sank Humfra-Dar off Colombo made it all the way to Aryaal and Baalkpan, but none of them even flew over Andaman.”

  “The sea is vast,” Keje said. “We cannot watch it all. They may have sneaked a scout ship past us. As for their failure to bomb Andamaan, that only means they either don’t know about our presence there or they don’t want us to know they know,” he groused.

  “Growing a bit paranoid?” Kathy asked with a small smile. Keje didn’t smile back.

  “As CINCWEST, do I have any choice? Perhaps General Aalden and his Second Corps would not be in the predicament they are now if others exercised a touch of paar-aa-noiaa now and then!” The statement was the first time he’d openly criticized Alden—even though Alden had already been criticizing himself almost daily. It showed how frustrated Keje was becoming. He glanced around, blinking apology.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “General Aalden is our greatest field commander. He planned his campaign based on what we know of the Grik. Unfortunately, what we ‘know’ is not always right and has shown a depressing capacity for change of late.” He sat straighter in his chair. “General Aalden will consolidate his force and rescue Second Corps—and General-Queen Maraan! In the meantime, we must deal with this other threat.” He sighed. “I agree that Andamaan is most likely safe. The defenses are well established and many ships are gathered there, preparing to come forward. In addition, the P-Fortys will soon arrive, able to carry a single, but heavier bomb. Maa-draas must be the enemy objective. But if those . . . battleships achieve it, they will block General Aalden’s line of supply. We must stop them.”

  Kathy looked around the room. “These guys have flown their hearts out and it seems clear there’s nothing more they can do. They’re beat, Admiral.”

  There were cries of protest, but Keje nodded. “Agreed. We have lost half a wing of aircraft, at any rate, between us and Arracca, and even though the enemy no longer shoots them down, the machines are failing. We will make for Maa-draas immediately. The aircraft based on Saa-lon can defend against any landings there. We will use the time to rest our aircrews and machines, then use them to help General Aalden.” He grinned. “Do not forget, my friends: We still have a powerful surface fleet of our own! We have Commodore Ellis and his DDs, in addition to our own, and Salissa and Arracca have mighty batteries! Perhaps we are not encased in iron, but I will match our stout sides against anything the Grik can build!” There were cheers and stamping feet. “Even if we have no further help by then,” Keje continued, “we will offload all aircraft and their necessary support, and clear our carriers for a surface action such as this world has never seen!”

  CHAPTER 22

  ////// March 20, 1944

  USS Walker

  Northwest Fil-pin Sea

  “Hold on!” shouted Super Bosun Fitzhugh Gray as he grabbed the little anchor crane far forward on Walker’s fo’c’sle. The bullnose and jackstaff disappeared as the knife-sharp bow—just a few paces away—pitched down beneath another gray-green roller. The torrent of seawater would have swept his repair detail away like crumbs on a plate without his warning, and even Gray felt his feet leave the deck as the flood cascaded past, erupting against the splinter shield of the number one gun and booming against the bridge structure beyond. He glanced quickly around at the ’Cats in his detail, making sure he hadn’t lost anyone. Like him, they’d been scrambled around a bit, but they were all there. “Hurry the hell up!” he roared, regaining his feet with the help of the cold iron crane.

  “We almost done!” cried Pack Rat, pounding a big, corklike plug into the hole in the deck where the starboard anchor chain vanished below. God knew what happened to the old cover; fell apart and washed away, most likely, but the chain locker was more than half-flooded and the pumps had more than enough to do.

  Gray turned around. “How ’bout you?” he asked Jeek, the flight-crew chief for the Special Air Division. Jeek had a new plane now, a day out of Samaar, where they’d taken it aboard and filled Walker’s growling bunkers with oil. But with the plane carefully stowed aft, he was part of Gray’s damage-control division, and it wasn’t like they’d be flying that day!

  “This damn hatch cover leak no matter what I do,” Jeek said angrily. He was trying to seal the hatch over the forward companionway. “Them gals in chief’s quarters just gonna have to live with it. It ever not leak?”

  “No,” Gray admitted. “Just thought we might try somethin’ while we was out here. Leave it be.” The hatch had always leaked, leaving the deck in the Chief’s quarters slick when the sea was high. The swooping, elevator-ride experience of living under the fo’c’sle was unpleasant enough even without the damp, but you got used to it. The only thing was, Diania lived in there now with Tabby, so she could be close to Sandra. She hadn’t made a peep about the conditions, but Gray could tell just by looking at her that she’d been miserable ever since the sea kicked up. He could spot that “look” a mile away after all these years. He shook his head, almost angrily. He’d tried. He looked back at Pack Rat, who’d sealed the opening as best he could. “C’mon, Jeek. Damn sure ain’t worth losin’ nobody over. Let’s get out of here.”

  They waited until after the bow took another plunge, and then scampered aft across the fo’c’sle until they reached the starboard hatch below the bridge. One of Jeek’s ’Cats opened the hatch, and they all darted through. They barely had it shut before another surge slammed against it.

  “Whew!” said Gray. “We’re done, for now. You guys can relax, but hang here until you’re relieved.” It had been a very wet, busy watch, and they’d spent it plugging leaks all over the f
orward half of the tired old ship. The worst had been a sprung plate in the forward berthing space, which wasn’t that bad in and of itself—except all the females aboard would have damp racks now—but a lot of seams were opening as the ship worked in the heavy seas and the pumps were starting to strain to keep up. The water in the chain locker had been just the latest concern, and they’d handled that quickly enough. “I’ll go report to the Skipper,” Gray said, turning for the stairs.

  Captain Reddy was standing beside his chair when Gray entered the pilothouse. He’d obviously left it so Sandra and Diania would have something to hold on to while the ship pitched. They were the only humans on the bridge, and the rest of the watch was all Lemurian. That didn’t bother Gray at all. Just about everyone on Walker could stand a bridge watch now, and they’d had plenty of practice in all conditions.

  “The old girl oughta ride easier after we get that water out of the chain locker,” Gray said, and Matt and the two women turned. Everyone was a little damp—that was the nature of things, and Walker’s semiopen pilothouse didn’t help—but Gray was utterly drenched and dripping on the wooden strakes.

  “Thank you for trying to fix the leak down the forward companionway,” Sandra said with a smile. She didn’t even look at Diania, but Gray felt his face heat. “I’m sure the ladies quartered there appreciate it.”

  “Didn’t work,” Gray objected. “I think the goddamn hatch was designed to leak . . . if you’ll excuse my French.”

  “You’re probably right,” Matt admitted, “but it was thoughtful to try. The chain locker?”

  “Tight, but that’s the only thing.” Gray hesitated. “Ah, Skipper? Maybe we ought not chase this Jap tin can right away. The ship’s tired, real tired, and she needs that dry-dock pretty bad. We could probably do most of the work at Manila in just a couple of weeks. Just tighten up the hull. We could tear down engineering once we catch the Jap and get back to Baalkpan.”

  Matt nodded but turned back to face out the windows. From here, the sea looked like jagged, broken gray iron beneath a lighter gray sky. Sandra looked at Matt, and her expression . . . troubled Gray. He was glad she and the Skipper had finally taken the plunge, and their happiness had been an infectious thing for their first few days at sea, but the reports that continued coming in had turned the Skipper anxious and restless, kind of like he’d been when they were racing back to Baalkpan to face Amagi, but less focused. That had been a bad time, but now there was a lot more going on, and almost nothing Matt could personally do about most of it. The man was a born leader. Maybe not in a MacArthur sort of way, thank God, but the kind who inspired others to do their best because they knew he was doing his right alongside them. Regardless how worried he was about Keje, Rolak, Pete, Safir Maraan, and all of First Fleet, he wouldn’t give orders to Keje because Keje was on the spot and he wasn’t, but the situation had to be driving him nuts. Gray was suddenly glad the Skipper hadn’t left Sandra at Samaar to take an empty oiler back to Maa-ni-la, like he’d suggested. Sandra had refused, of course, as Walker’s medical officer, and Matt hadn’t pressed. After all, they’d probably need her if they caught Hidoiame—and her just being around was good for the Skipper.

  Gray noticed that Diania was still looking at him, a curious expression on her face. He probably hadn’t spoken a dozen words to her since that fine breakfast on Respite—but they were shipboard now, damn it! She shouldn’t even be here!

  “Can’t, Boats,” Matt finally said, still looking forward. “I wish we did, but we just don’t have time to go in the yard. Mr. Palmer was just here with the latest”—he paused—“and things are getting desperate in the west. You know most of it, but now it looks like Keje’s going to go up against those Jap-Grik battlewagons in a straight-up fight with his flat-tops. What a damn mess! If he loses, not only could it cost us all our carriers in the area, but Pete and the entire expeditionary force will be cut off!

  “On the good side, sort of, it looks like Jenks has made it to the Enchanted Isles in time to salvage the situation there, but there’s going to be a fight. . . .”

  “And all this fighting is too far away for you to do anything about,” Sandra said quietly.

  “No! . . . Well, yes, damn it, but we’ve still got that Jap ‘can’ out there, full of real bad Japs, and we’re all there is. We can’t help Keje or Jenks or anybody right now, except the people that ship has killed—and still will, if she’s not stopped. This is our fight, and nobody can do it for us. Our scouts are keeping an eye on her and she’s still headed southwest, but if she gets away now, we might never find her.”

  “Okay,” Sandra said, “but just so long as Hidoiame hasn’t turned into your white whale.” One thing she and Matt discovered during their brief honeymoon was that both enjoyed Melville.

  Matt snorted, and when he turned to look at Sandra, the intensity that must have been growing in his green eyes was already fading.

  “No,” he said with a crooked smile. “The only white whale around here is Earl Lanier, and our peg-legged Filipino is more than a match for him.” His voice lowered. “This is just a job, and my only obsession is you. Maybe I’m a little obsessed with the bigger job of winning the war, but we’re not in the big picture right now.” He raised his voice again so all could hear. “Hidoiame’s just another job for Walker and her gallant crew,” he said in a light but serious tone, “but she is our job!”

  Indiaa

  General Halik’s HQ

  General Halik brooded in frustration in the confined space of his bunker. He hated it! He felt like he’d been forced to hide in a hole like vermin, but the enemy aircraft had shown an unerring knack for targeting his command structure when it was exposed aboveground. It seemed the age-old way of moving proudly into battle beneath the streaming banners of the provincial regent were gone forever. The disciplined column of “new” warriors beneath the very banners of the Giver of Life had suffered cruelly as well, and he’d been forced to disperse the suddenly confused “hatchling host” to some degree. They, at least, could adjust, he told himself. They’d been designed primarily for defense, after all, and they could do that wherever they were—but he needed his attacking warriors to mass, and whenever they did that, they were vulnerable. The aircraft alone had forced him to turn this excruciatingly long battle into a series of night attacks, and the unexpected tenacity of his trapped opponent and the added confusion of darkness had caused a disturbing number of even his hardened, “improved” warriors to turn prey! He seethed. Tonight, he promised himself. Tonight will turn the tide!

  Runners had come from General Niwa in the south, telling that General of the Sea Kurokawa had finally arrived with the Grand Fleet, and Niwa had received more hatchling warriors. Niwa could now use them to block the tongue, leaving him free to attack the enemy with all his might on the other side of the mountains at Madras. Niwa also promised that “much of what has been confusing will soon be clear,” and all their enemies in India would be under their power. The dispatch left Halik even more confused in some respects, but it remained implicit that he had to gain control of the pass for the victory to be complete.

  He stopped his pacing, listening, as his aides accosted an arrival outside. “Let him in,” he said, and General Ugla clanked down the steps and parted the roughly woven curtain that kept dust from entering the bunker—and light from escaping at night.

  “Lord General!” Ugla cried, preparing to throw himself on his belly.

  “Do not!” Halik said sharply, then paused. “Consider it done, General Ugla,” he continued more softly. “We have much to discuss.”

  “Lord General?”

  “We must break the enemy tonight,” Halik said. “The battle progresses beyond our view.” His yellow eyes sharpened. “I do not know how it progresses in every way, and that does . . . concern me, but I believe our part is crucial.” He looked keenly at Ugla. “You were in the highlands on Ceylon and you have seen the fighting here from the very front. You have grown immensely, and I would value y
our comparisons.” Ugla was born to be a general, but this campaign had raised an awareness of war in him that Halik still strove to achieve—and others, like First General Esshk—might never be capable of. That disturbed him, but excited him as well.

  “My lord,” Ugla began, but paused.

  “Do not be concerned. I already know what is bad. Our losses have been crippling, and the battle remains set as it was when it began.”

  “Then I will add that our warriors that do not lose themselves fight even better now than they did.” Ugla said, then snorted. “The bullet weapons are a great disappointment. Unlike the weapons of the enemy, ours do not work when it rains, or even when the air is wet. Many of our steadiest Uul have died relying on them.”

  “Ours will improve,” Halik assured him. “We captured many of the enemy’s arms when we took the southern hill.”

  “As you say, Lord. That will be a great help . . . someday. In the meantime, the enemy has improved as well, even beyond his skill in the highlands on Ceylon.” His crest rose. “Our warriors who have not turned prey do not fear the enemy, but the enemy does not fear us either! How can battles end if there is no fear?”

  “They end when we kill them all,” Halik said softly. “And they will fear us soon.”