Against the Tide Imperial: The Struggle for Ceylon (The Usurper's War: An Alternative World War II Book 3)

by James Young

  Patricia could see Jo regarding her suspiciously.

  I suppose I've played the 'oh everything is fine…let me bite your head off' trick one time too often.

  Once more, she felt ashamed at her behavior.

  "I know that might seem hard to believe," Patricia continued. "I can only hope that you'll accept my apology."

  After a long pause, Patricia swallowed. Her eyes started to burn as she proceeded.

  Goddammit. This is why the damn twins treat me like I’m twelve still.

  "But if you want me to move out, Jenny can probably use a roommate," Patricia said. "I've been gone so much the last few days because I've been helping her roommate Rebekkah get ready for a wedding. Seems she is in the family way from a sailor off the Salt Lake City."

  Jo winced.

  "That's a fella who is going through a lot," Jo observed. "First he loses a bunch of his shipmates and all his stuff back in March, now he's about to be a father and a husband?"

  "He was recently reassigned, disappeared for a few weeks, came back," Patricia said. "I think they celebrated his survival a little too enthusiastically."

  Patricia saw a shadow cross over Jo's face for a brief second.

  “You seem kind of judgmental there,” Patricia said.

  “Just never sure what it means when a woman gets herself pregnant,” Jo replied. “There’s ways to stop that.”

  Patricia raised an eyebrow, but decided to let that one drop.

  "Anyway, I'm sure I can just move into Rebekkah’s bedroom," Patricia finished. This time, the tears did come, and she grabbed at the napkin on the table to dab at her eyes…and just barely remembered the gooey remnants on her hand.

  Jo covered her mouth to hide her laugh, then shook her head as she wiped at her own eyes.

  "No one needs to leave," Jo said, quickly standing up to walk over to the break room's basin. She rummaged for a cloth, wet it, then brought it back for Patricia.

  "Thank you," Patricia said, taking the cloth. After she wiped her hand, Jo reached out and took it in both of hers.

  "I'm sorry too," Jo said. "I should have insisted they tell you, especially with me being the maid of honor."

  Patricia saw her roommate swallow.

  "It's all right," Patricia said, putting her hand on top of Jo's. She smiled. "I'm glad you got some experience in the job before Charles and I's wedding,"

  Jo's eyes widened at that.

  "He didn't formally ask, but there was at least a discussion about it before he left," Patricia said. "I just wish we'd get some damn letters from Eric and him. Or at least some confirmation that they're still alive."

  As soon as she'd said the words, Patricia felt her lunch do a flip flop in her stomach.

  Losing Eric is hard enough to think about. That I could conceivably have lost both Eric and Charles in the same day? It's terrifying.

  With that thought, she put the peanut butter and jelly sandwich back in its tin. Jo glanced at the uneaten sandwich, then up at Patricia.

  "It's terrible not knowing, isn't it?" Jo said quietly.

  "Yes," Patricia replied. "The most terrifying feeling of all."

  “I wish they hadn’t made us leave while they had their pow wow,” Jo said. “Kind of hard for us to maybe guess what some code might mean if we don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Probably thought our delicate sensibilities couldn’t handled it,” Patricia said, rolling her eyes.

  “Yes, because us sitting in here thinking the worst is so much better,” Jo said. “Eric, Charles, my dad…they could all be dead.”

  The door opened and Gunnery Sergeant Longstreet stepped inside. Nodding at the two women, he walked over to the coffee machine and started to make a pot.

  “It was well past time for me, a lowly Gunny, to leave,” Longstreet observed when he realized both women were staring at him. Pausing, he considered both Jo and Patricia.

  “I’m sorry, I’m not interrupting something, am I?” he asked. “I assure you, with five sisters there’s nothing you’re going to say that will shock me, so please carry on.”

  Jo and Patricia looked at each other, then back at Longstreet, who was smiling at them.

  “Yes, I am the mirror image of Miss Cobb,” he continued. “Oldest child. Dad actually made me explain the birds and the bees to my three youngest sisters. Said I needed the practice if I was going to keep breaking young ladies’ hearts.”

  Patricia looked at Longstreet in shock as Jo guffawed. Longstreet smiled at her knowingly.

  “I imagine your father probably had the same problems I did with that speech. Except he didn’t have his mother crossly correcting him from the next room. With anatomically correct phrases.”

  Longstreet stopped as there were rising voices from the next room. Looking out the break room’s small window, he nodded and walked over to both Patricia and Jo.

  “By the way, I’ve seen the initial casualty reports,” he said quietly. Houston is on her way back here by way of Samoa, and there were no Cobbs listed.”

  Patricia felt a momentary sense of relief that turned to dread. Longstreet looked at her quizzically.

  I can’t…I can’t ask, Patricia thought.

  “Read,” Jo said. “Was there a Lieutenant Read?”

  “Off the Massachusetts?” Longstreet asked, his face starting to grow horrified.

  “No, he would have been off the Yorktown,” Patricia said, her mouth feeling like it was full of ashes.

  “No, there was a Lieutenant Read off of the Massachusetts,” Longstreet replied. “Would have been from the Atlantic Fleet.”

  Patricia felt a sense of relief as Jo reached over and gripped her hand. Patricia squished her friend’s hand back, then looked over when Jo jerked in surprise.

  “You didn’t get all the peanut butter,” Jo observed with a relieved smile. She licked her hand, causing Patricia to start giggling. Longstreet looked at the two of them, but was stopped from asking any questions by Commander Tannehill poking his head in the door.

  “Miss Cobb, Miss Morton, you are released for the day,” Tannehill said. “Don’t worry, you will get your full pay. Gunny Longstreet, let’s take a walk.”

  Patricia turned to look at Jo for a moment, then started gathering her things as the two men left.

  “What do you think is going on?” she asked.

  “Who knows?” Jo replied. “I’m just glad that everyone is safe.”

  U.S.S. Houston

  300 Miles North of American Samoa

  1655 Local (2234 Eastern)

  29 August (29 August)

  "General quarters! General quarters!" The Houston's intercom crackled, causing Jacob to jerk upright at his desk. "All hands, man your battle stations! Direction of travel is forward to starboard, aft to port! Possible surface action!"

  Surface action? Dammit XO, this is not the time to call a drill.

  Looking down, he cursed, the smudge of ink marring an otherwise perfect line on the heavy cruiser's stationery.

  Well, guess I'll be starting that letter to Mrs. Gooding again whenever I get back here. He grabbed his helmet and buckled it as he headed for the hatch leading out of his day cabin to the bridge.

  "Report," he said resignedly before realizing Commander Sloan was standing behind the helmsman, not the Officer of the Deck.

  That means it's not a drill.

  Jacob felt a rush of adrenaline.

  "Smoke, sir," Sloan said, pointing as Jacob grabbed his own binoculars from the captain's chair. "I left orders for the OOD to notify me before we bothered you, given what you were doing, but the lookouts also swear they saw an aircraft low on the horizon as well."

  That's not good.

  Jacob glanced at his watch, then studied the horizon.

  No, that's not good at all.

  It was far too late for any long range patrol aircraft from Samoa to be this far out given how close it was to sunset.

  "Good call XO," Jacob said. "Did radar pick anything up?"


  "No captain," Sloan said. "I've doubled the sky lookouts aft though."

  "Best get back there to Battle Two to supervise them, I suppose," Jacob said with a grim nod.

  Not that if there's an enemy aircraft we're going to be able to do much. Given we had to leave all the new shells back in Sydney for ships not allegedly heading to safer waters.

  After her emergency repairs, the Houston had arrived in American Samoa a little under a week after departing Sydney. Jacob had personally delivered the sealed orders from Admiral Hart to Rear Admiral Giffen, American Samoa’s current commander. After reading them, Rear Admiral Giffen had commandeered the Houston for an important mission: Figure out what happened to the U.S.S. Trenton.

  "Sir, signal from the Pillsbury," the bridge talker said. "Do you see smoke bearing oh seven oh true?"

  Jacob kicked himself mentally.

  Have to remember I've got a second vessel with us.

  "Respond in the affirmative, bring us around to course oh five oh true, then tell the Pillsbury to assume line ahead formation," Jacob ordered.

  Not so sure sending an elderly destroyer and a damaged heavy cruiser out to find whatever ate a light cruiser whole is the best plan. Alas, that's why he's Rear Admiral Giffen and I'm Captain Morton.

  The Houston's propulsion plant had received some hasty repairs and her hull was patched. Still, the best the cruiser could do was twenty-two knots as opposed to her designed thirty-three.

  "Sir, I must protest the safety of this transport," Commander Farmer observed drily as he stepped onto the bridge. "I was led to believe that this would be an uneventful transit to Hawaii, yet here we are going to action stations in the middle of the South Pacific."

  Jacob favored Farmer with a smile. Initially, the powers that be had determined that the Commonwealth officer should be assigned ashore due to his brother's death.Jacob's action report to Admiral Hart had emphasized the utility of having a Commonwealth officer aboard and formally requested Farmer's retention.

  Apparently I was persuasive. Or else he's now considered a deserter and might end up getting shot when we reach Pearl Harbor.

  Jacob was glad to have the officer back aboard, even if the thick cast on the British officer's arm joined Jacob’s stitches as reminders of their time in the Indian Ocean.

  Plenty of time to heal on the way to Pearl. It's going to be a long haul, especially with this detour.

  "It's not too late for you to be assigned as the Commonwealth liaison to American Samoa," Jacob replied. "We're getting close to where the Pillsbury has to turn around anyway."

  Farmer drew back in mock horror.

  "Is it an American Navy custom to throw an officer from the frying pan into the fire?" he asked. "I mean, yes she survived the unpleasantness in the Indies, but the Pillsbury is only a safe haven when compared to a rowboat."

  Jacob raised an eyebrow.

  "I'm pretty sure Lieutenant Commander Moran would have no mercy on you for that comment," Jacob replied. "Knew him when he was a plebe and I was a firstie. He boxed intramurals. Quite the wild man."

  Farmer raised up his left arm.

  "I've got a bloody club, Captain," he said, drawing a chuckle from the rest of the bridge crew.

  "Sir, radar has two contacts, bearing oh two zero, range twenty-eight thousand yards," the bridge talker reported, then paused as the lookouts called out basically the same information.

  Good to know sharp eyes beats the new fangled technology on a clear day still.

  Jacob looked at the low cloud cover.

  Well, mostly clear day.

  "We're a little east of the usual shipping lanes, aren't we?" Commander Farmer asked after glancing at the map. "That is, unless it's a pair of merchants out of Chile bound for Sydney."

  Something doesn't seem quite right about this.

  "Come starboard thirty degrees," Jacob said, looking at the low sun. "Signal the Pillsbury to make sure she doesn't get more than ten thousand yards ahead of us."

  Commander Farmer looked over at Jacob briefly, then quickly looked away.

  "Yes, I am feeling slightly suspicious," Jacob said. The British officer cracked a small smile.

  "Didn't want to sound any more paranoid than I already am, sir," Farmer replied.

  The next ten minutes passed in tense silence as the Houston and Pillsbury continued to close with the two ships ahead. Bringing his binoculars up, Jacob once again studied the two vessels. Both had single stacks, the smoke pouring from them indicating both vessels were steaming near maximum power away from Houston.

  "Signal both vessels to heave to," Jacob ordered, guessing the trailing vessel to be close enough to read Houston's code. Jacob turned over to see Farmer staring intently at the two ships.

  "Do you recognize their markings?" Jacob asked Farmer as his crew sprang to their work.

  "No, sir, I do not," Farmer replied. Suddenly he jerked erect, as if he'd had an epiphany. After a moment, his shoulders slumped. "I don't expect your vessel has an Admiralty Book, do you?"

  "A what?" Jacob asked.

  "It's a handbook the Royal Navy provided to all of our cruisers at the start of the war," Farmer said, then corrected himself. "In '39, rather. Updated every year."

  Jacob shook his head ruefully.

  "I've heard that ONI was supposed to publish a merchantman recognition book sometime at the start of this year," Jacob said. "Intended to help our vessels know who had stayed and who had left in your fleet as well as what merchantmen."

  Farmer's lips pursed.

  "I'm guessing that never got done?" he stated.

  "No, not likely," Jacob stated. "Or if it did, the books are a pile of ash someplace at Cavite or the East Indies."

  Farmer was about to respond when both men spotted a flashing near the sternmost ship's superstructure. Bringing up his binoculars, Jacob first saw the vessel's black hull fill his field of view. A white band ran seemingly in an unbroken line around the ship, looking almost like a second waterline. The superstructure matched the band while the funnel matched the majority of the hull. Two light blue bands at the very top of the funnel completed the paint scheme.

  Such a familiar coloring but I don't know why.

  Then it struck him about the same time as he read the only part of the vessel's blinkering he could understand.

  Those look like some of the Dutch vessels we saw in the Indies.

  "Abbekirk is an odd name," Jacob said. "Can't understand a lick of the rest."

  "Might be panic," Farmer said, relaxing somewhat. "I know I wouldn't be expecting a heavy cruiser all the way out here, so they may think we're Japanese or Usurper."

  I can't believe anyone would mistake us for a Japanese heavy cruiser. Then again, I haven't had my home country and colonies both conquered and become a vagabond.

  "Tell that Dutchman to signal slower, and in English," Jacob stated. "Come starboard ten more degrees so she can get a better look at us. Then order the Pillsbury to get in closer. No one's going to mistake a four-stacker for enemy."

  Farmer winced.

  "You did give fifty of those destroyers to us back in '41," the man said. "But yes, bit far out for a Town-class destroyer, even if the Usurper still had forces in the Cook Islands."

  The mention of the Cook Islands' former bases made Jacob consider his orders.

  Pondering whether we should break radio silence to Samoa. If there's something that sank the Trenton out here, these two merchants probably need an escort. They're fast vessels given how slowly we're catching them, which probably means a critical cargo.

  He glanced at the navigator's map hanging in the corner.

  Then again, if I make a transmission and there is a hostile force out here, that'd almost certainly bring them looking in this direction.

  "Signal the Pillsbury to close with all possible speed and make visual contact," Jacob said. "Bring us another ten degrees to starboard so they can get a good luck at our broadside. Not much that looks like a Northampton-class cruiser on the oth
er side."

  Once more, the Houston's crew smoothly began to execute his orders. The Pillsbury's stacks puffed additional smoke as the destroyer began to accelerate. Jacob noted the Houston's turrets starting to swing to track the two vessels.

  "Tell Guns to belay pointing the main battery at the two vessels," Jacob snapped. "They're jumpy enough as is."

  "Aye aye, sir," the talker replied. There was a moment's pause.

  "Commander Sloan asks if we should secure from General Quarters?" the talker asked. Jacob was about to speak in the affirmative, but something stopped him.

  "Negative," he replied, dimly recalling an intelligence briefing from long ago. "Also, did that Dutchman ever send his signal again?"

  Farmer looked over at Jacob.

  "You still seem suspicious, Captain Morton?" he noted.

  "Suspicious men live long, fruitful lives in war," Jacob replied. "Plus I remember reading somewhere that the Germans had a couple of 'Q-ships' or whatever that had the same punch as a light cruiser."

  Farmer nodded.

  "I believe they call them Schiff, sir," Farmer said. "Nasty little buggers. When the truce fell through, several of them were already at sea. Caused quite a bit of damage to the whaling fleet and some unescorted vessels."

  Jacob pursed his lips.

  "We'll stay at a bit of range," he said, turning back to the signaling rear vessel. Again the response was gibberish other than Abbekirk and, for the other vessel, Antenor. As he relayed the name to the talker, Jacob saw Farmer's brow knit.

  "What's the matter, Commander Farmer?" he asked.

  "That name is fam…that's a bloody raider!" Farmer shouted. "The Antenor struck a mine off of Espiritu Santo last month!"

  Well shit.

  "Signal the Pillsbury!" he barked. "Order her–"

  Jacob did not get a chance to finish his sentence before both vessels ahead of them executed hard turns to port. Although at 10,000-yards the Houston was too distant for Jacob to make out details with the naked eye, he watched as both vessels sides flashed down their length. With that all too familiar sound of ripping canvas and steel on steel, the Houston shuddered and was surrounded by several water spouts.