“That’s it?”
“Well, chances are, they’ve got better fire control. Otherwise, we’ve got the edge in rate of fire and maybe fire correction.”
“Why?”
“Those five-incher’s are bag guns. They gotta ram the projectile, then the powder bag, and they have to change elevation to do it. They’re fast, don’t get me wrong—we’ve seen ’em—but we should get off four or five more rounds per minute than they can—until the ready lockers run dry. It’ll even up when we have to start passing ammo from below by hand.”
Matt considered. “Okay, Sonny. How close do you want ’em?”
“We should be in range now, but with this sea . . . I’d feel more confident at ten thousand, and that would still keep us out of range of their twenty-fives. Course, we’re already technically in range of their five-inchers.”
Matt nodded, though Campeti couldn’t see it. He had a hunch that the Japanese captain would be frugal with his ammunition. According to Okada’s cook, Hidoiame had seen action before she crossed over, and then she’d used ammunition on Mizuki Maru and the other ships she’d murdered. Her bunkers might be full for now, with that tanker she had along, but her magazines could be seriously depleted. Walker could always get more ammunition.
“Range is fourteen thousand and closing, Skipper. Target has increased speed.” Campeti shouted.
“What’s the range to the tanker?” Matt asked.
“Ah, about fourteen. I think she’s turning away.”
“Can you hit her?”
There was a brief pause. “I . . . think so. She’s bigger than the tin can—not a lot bigger. She ain’t no fleet oiler, but she’s slow.”
“Very well. Target the tanker with every gun that will bear!”
“Aye, aye, Skipper—but what about the can? She’s really pourin’ on the coal now!”
“The tanker, Sonny!”
“Aye, Captain.”
Matt handed the headset back to Minnie.
“Why the tanker, Skipper?” Spanky asked. “We get the can, we’ll have the tanker on a plate.”
“Something I guess I have to try,” Matt said. “There’ll be a smaller crew on the tanker, and maybe not all those men are murderers.” He shrugged. “Let’s just say I owe General Shinya one.”
“One what?”
“A chance we never really gave the ordinary seamen on Amagi, Spanky: a chance to do the right thing.” An ironic smile appeared on his face. “Those’re Japs over there, Mr. McFarlane, but you do realize that’s not why we’ve been chasing them, don’t you? That’s all over—or it should be for us. We’re here because they’re murderers with a very deadly weapon and they have to be stopped. I’m going to give them an option, a single chance; then I mean to start taking all the options they think they have away!” He smiled fondly at his friend. “Now take your station aft, at the auxiliary conn. I have the deck and the conn.”
“Aye, aye, sir. I stand relieved. The captain has the deck and the conn!” Spanky announced, and with a quick, curious nod at Matt, he bolted aft, down the ladder.
Matt went to the heavy Bakelite telephone mounted on the aft bulkhead that connected the bridge to the comm shack. “Mr. Palmer, this is the captain speaking. I want you to send a voice-radio message. Start with the frequency Okada used to contact the Japanese ships. Message contents: This is the cruiser USS Walker.” (Matt knew the Japanese had often mistaken the very similar silhouettes of four-stack destroyers with the bigger four-stack light cruisers like the old Marblehead. Maybe that would help.) “Our old war does not exist here, and this ship is no longer at war with the Empire of Japan. Yours is a criminal ship, however, with criminal officers who murdered helpless prisoners of war and civilian . . . natives. That’s not war on any world. You have become pirates, and your leaders must be held accountable for their crimes. Surrender your ships now and you’ll get a fair trial. Those of you innocent of the crimes I described will be honorably treated and allowed to emigrate to a land governed by honorable Japanese! Refuse, and you’ll be destroyed. This offer will not be repeated, nor are the terms negotiable. You have one minute to reply.”
The seconds ticked by, the only sounds from the straining ship and the sea.
“Lookout reports Jaap destroyer open fire!” Minnie cried.
“That’s the option I kind of figured they’d take,” Matt said resignedly. “Time to show them they don’t have any.”
“Twin waterspouts, four hundred tai— yards off port bow!” Minnie reported. They were invisible from the pilothouse.
Matt looked at Sandra. She’d eased away from him, toward the chart table, as if trying to remain unnoticed. “Your station is in the wardroom, I believe,” he said gently. She slashed a nod, but took a step closer.
“We’ll lick them, won’t we?” she asked. She couldn’t help it.
Matt nodded confidently. “They’re newer, bigger, quicker, and their guns are heavier, but we can put just as much iron on target.” The bridge watch growled agreement. “Besides”—he grinned and patted his chair—“we’re the good guys, and we’ve got Walker. We can’t lose.”
Sandra smiled, but the expression was brittle. “Be . . . careful,” she mouthed, but visibly cursed herself. There I go again, she thought. What a stupid thing to say! She firmed up. “So long, Captain Reddy. I’ll see you after the fight!” Without another word, she left the bridge.
“Hoist the battle flag,” Matt ordered. “All ahead full! Come right ten degrees! Have Mr. Palmer transmit to all stations that we are engaging the enemy at thirteen twenty-one hours. Mr. Kutas, provide him with our current position, if you please.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Norm replied.
Matt looked through the water-smeared windows. He thought he could just see a small, dark, blurry shape far away on the heaving sea. “Inform Mr. Campeti to commence firing the main battery—at the tanker!”
* * *
Spanky was soaking wet, but he had to admit he had an amazing view. The ship had never gone into action, nor had he been on the auxiliary conn atop the aft deckhouse with the sea running quite this high. Everything was moving, and he could see it all. The sea was roiling, shifting, every second, and a light rain swirled in all directions, whipped and tattered by the wind. Helmeted heads bobbed and moved all over the ship, in the gun tubs of the twenty-fives, along the deck below as Jeek’s division prepped the Nancy to go over the side, and up on the amidships gun platform. Some of the helmets were gray and others polished bronze, but they all had the same distinctive doughboy shape. The slightest wisps of smoke darted from the tops of three funnels and almost instantly vanished. Farther forward, he saw the large battle flag, a replica of the ruined flag that flew over Walker at the Battle of Baalkpan, with her major actions embroidered on the stripes, lurch up the foremast halyard and stand out to leeward.
The greatest motion of all seemed to come from Walker herself, though Spanky knew that was an illusion. He was almost as far aft on the old ship as you could get, and the stern swooped up and down like an elevator gone amok as she pitched. Sometimes the stern rose so high that the screws flailed at the sea and then dropped so low he thought the waves would swallow him up. Even on the upswing, he never personally saw the target, and again he was struck by the miracle of modern naval gunnery. He knew as much about the mechanical fire-control computer as Campeti did—it was just a complicated machine, after all. Sonny was better with ballistics and trajectories and all the math and stuff, but intellectually Spanky understood how the gun director would be nearly as efficient now as when the sea was at rest. In his gut, however, he couldn’t imagine how they could even hit the sea on purpose right now.
The worst illusion—he hoped it was one—was the way the hull itself seemed to twist and squirm in the foam that gushed alongside. He knew Walker was working hard, but she couldn’t be doing all that. Could she? He looked to his right. Chief Quartermaster Paddy Rosen had joined him; Norm was on the bridge. Norman Kutas might be first lieut
enant now, but he’d been at Walker’s helm through almost every fight. That’s where he belonged. Back here, Spanky had a good backup crew. Walker’s bench got deeper all the time, but he, Paddy, and several ’Cats were just hanging around (and hanging on) for now. He took the sodden tobacco pouch from his pocket and crammed a handful of the yellowish leaves in his mouth, then tried to look confident—and hoped to God they wouldn’t be needed to conn the ship. The brand-new Nancy splashed into the sea alongside, landing awkwardly, upside down. The starboard propeller guard brushed it aside, and it swirled away aft. A single waterspout suddenly jetted skyward a good distance to port.
“You guys better move!” cried Pack Rat. The Lemurian gunner’s mate was gun captain on number four, right behind the aft conn, and the muzzle of the Japanese 4.7-incher was cranked around almost even with the signals station on the forward port side of the platform. The gun was near the maximum elevation of Walker’s other guns, but the muzzle blast would be intense.
“Let’s go!” Spanky ordered his companions, and they hurried starboard aft.
“Pointers matched! On target!” Pack Rat shouted to his talker.
“Fire!” the talker yelled back. The ’Cat on the left seat stabbed down on the foot trigger, and nothing happened at once. Then, for an instant, Walker was level enough for the gyro to complete the firing circuit, and guns one, two, and four roared.
* * *
“Up two hundred, right ten degrees!” Sonny Campeti shouted. The new tracers were more orange than red, but he could see them—two had actually passed uncomfortably close to his left—and they converged beautifully. He’d even seen the reasonably tight group of splashes through his binoculars. The rain was tapering off, but Walker still didn’t have a range finder. Her old one had been a piece of junk before it was shot to pieces, and nothing had been built to replace it. Campeti was very good at estimating ranges, however, almost as good at Greg Garrett. That kid’s an artist, Campeti thought. “Match pointers!” he yelled.
* * *
Three salvos had arced away toward the distant tanker when Palmer rang the bridge. “Captain speaking,” Matt said when the phone was handed to him.
“Skipper!” came Ed Palmer’s excited voice. “I got Japs jabbering like mad, and somebody with a little English is begging us to stop shooting!” The ship shook as another three-gun salvo flashed. Splashes rose near Walker again, but off to starboard this time.
“Well who the hell is it? The tin can is shooting at us, and we haven’t even started on her yet. Must be the tanker.”
“I think so, Captain. I can barely understand—”
The horizon flashed pinkish red through the wet windows, and a yellow-white glare ensued. There were cheers on the bridge and Matt even heard yelling from the number one gun down on the fo’c’sle. Stites’s voice was particularly clear.
“Ah . . .” said Palmer. “The hollering just quit.”
“Guess it was the tanker,” Matt said simply. “Thanks for the report, Mr. Palmer. Carry on.” He handed the phone back. “Have Mr. Campeti target the enemy destroyer,” he told Minnie, and stepped out on the port bridgewing. Hidoiame was clear in his binoculars now, steaming almost directly at them. She’s a strange-looking duck, he thought. Her bow curved up and forward like a clipper ship, and her superstructure was high and blocky. So far, only her forward two guns would bear, and they were enclosed within a large, odd-looking turret on her fo’c’sle. As he watched, the two guns flashed.
“Captain, it’s Palmer again!”
Matt stepped back inside and took the phone.
“Skipper? I . . . I got the Jap destroyer captain on the horn. He’s asking to talk to you!”
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 i
t 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.
Iron Gray Sea: Destroyermen Page 40
