Authors: Taylor Anderson
With a staccato thunderclap that lasted half a minute and left Pete feeling like he was being clamped in a vise and tossed around like a leaf at the same time, the space between the gun line and the forest was consumed by an enormous, roiling cloud of smoke.
It’s always a little yellowish when you shoot canister,
he observed absently. It puzzled him. He tried to pop his ears.
Time to get back to work
, he realized. Clapping Saachic on the arm, he started shoving his way through the troops toward where he’d heard Safir. He found her standing, wrapped in her cloak as if hiding her wound, peering intently into the smoke.
“You okay?” Pete demanded.
“Yes. Fine.”
“We need to get ahold of Rolak,” Pete insisted, gesturing at the comm cart a short distance to the rear. He suddenly remembered refusing a few of the new field telephones he’d been offered, preferring the space they’d take on supply flights be devoted to ammunition. He’d considered his communications sufficient, but now realized how wrong he’d been. If he could’ve just called Rolak
then
. . . He was struck by the irony that, having gotten used to not having all the conveniences he’d taken for granted on his old world, he had trouble adapting to having some available again.
“I ordered such as soon as I got here,” Safir replied. “Thus far, he has not responded.”
“Maybe his line’s been cut or he’s on the move and can’t rig an aerial,” Pete speculated. He looked to the front. ’Cat infantry had advanced back between the guns and were firing into the smoke, while the gun ’Cats reloaded their artillery. Some guns were already blindly spewing more canister into the space before them. As far as Pete could tell, not a single Grik warrior had emerged from the carnage of that first great barrage. They couldn’t have gotten them all, but the Grik couldn’t have halted such a charge themselves . . . Could they? He’d never seen such a thing before, but like everyone kept saying, the Grik were changing. He shook his head. No matter. Even if the Grik stopped, they couldn’t have backed out of range yet, and the canister would keep killing them. He turned back to Safir.
“You got this?” he demanded.
“I do!” she said defiantly.
“Swell. Keep firing until you’re sure your front is clear, then pull back to the other side of the corral cut—back where we started. It’ll give you a broader killing field, and maybe they won’t cross it in the face of all these guns. . . .”
“Which we cannot feed much longer!”
“No. But they don’t know that, and we’ll have air again.”
“Where are you going?”
“To find Rolak!”
33
//////
2nd Battle of
Madras
USS
Santa Catalina
C
ommodore Jim Ellis stood with Commander Russ Chapelle on the bridge of the converted “protected cruiser”
Santa Catalina
, sharing binoculars and staring at the distant shore of India. A smudge of dark smoke lingered high in the unseasonably clear, early-afternoon sky above their objective. Constant wireless reports kept them apprised of the situation at Madras, as well as that of General Alden’s embattled force. Ellis was in overall command of the event-hastened effort to retake Madras and relieve General Alden until Matt and Keje returned from their escort mission south. It hadn’t been planned that way, but when Alden reported it was essential he go
today
, everything had to be moved up, and neither Captain Reddy nor Keje would second-guess the imperative or try to insinuate themselves into the decision-making process from a distance. At the moment,
Walker
,
Mahan
, and
Salissa
’s battle group, including oilers and the frigates (DDs), of Des-Ron 6—were still just northeast of Trin-con-lee, having turned back to deal with more heavy Grik ships reportedly approaching from the south. Half of what remained of Ben Mallory’s 3rd Pursuit was back over Madras now, and the other half, under Lieutenant Diebel, was hunting the Grik reinforcements with a much more rapid sortie rate.
USS
Santa Catalina
(CA-P-1), was currently flagship of First Fleet (North), composed of USNRS
Arracca
(CV-3), and USS
Baalkpan Bay
(CV-6). Most of the DDs of Des-Ron 9 constituted their screen, and they were accompanied by oilers, tenders, and sufficient transports for the four divisions of the newly minted VII Corps. Those troops included not only two regiments of Imperials—about to face the Grik for the first time—but a full division from the Great South Island, recruited by (now Commander) Saaran-Gaani. They’d land just south of Madras as soon as it was safe to do so. About half of VI Corps, under General Linnaa was aboard
Baalkpan Bay
and yet more transports.
S-19 was also attached. Ellis had managed to get Laumer to admit the voyage from Baalkpan to Andaman had demonstrated that his submarine-turned–torpedo boat had some unfortunate tendencies in heavy seas. She was relatively fast but didn’t ride the waves very well. To Laumer’s intense disappointment, Jim had to recommend that Matt not take S-19 on his ambitious raid. It
was
hoped she’d be useful to Jim Ellis, and being a smaller target and faster than
Santa Catalina
, maybe Laumer would get a chance to test the new torpedoes against the enemy.
Chief Bosun’s Mate Stanley “Dobbin” Dobson appeared on the bridge. “Commodore,” he said respectfully to Jim, then looked at Russ. “Skipper. The comm shack’s about to catch fire, with all the hot traffic.”
“What’s the latest?”
“We’re not getting much outa Alden right now, but COFO Leedom says his air is burning Grik around the perimeter like ants with a blowtorch. He has to be careful, though; the positions are shiftin’ around like water on the wardroom deck. He hasn’t heard directly from Alden either, but the word is that crazy gyrene’s gone amok and thinks he’s just a rifleman again!”
“All Marines are riflemen, Dobbin,” Ellis chuckled. “First, last, and always. He may’ve gone ‘amok,’ but he did pretty well like that on B’mbaado, if you’ll recall.”
“With respect, sir, it ain’t the same. It’s like if you took off in a whaleboat with a pistol in the middle of a fleet action!”
“Which I guess I would—if it came to that,” Ellis stated in a tone that implied Dobson should get on with it.
“Yessir. Anyway, Colonel Mallory sank two more Jap-Grik battlewagons, but lost two of the four P-Forties he took on the second strike. One knocked a wing off on its bomb run when it smacked a smokestack. It spiraled into the bay, and there’s no chance for the pilot.” He shook his head. “Another one’s engine quit and the pilot bailed out—not far from Fifth Corps’s forward position guarding the crossing to Ceylon. Colonel Mallory asks that scouts be sent to find his flyer. Fifth Corps CO says he’ll do what he can.”
“Okay,” said Russ. “That accounts for eight of the battlewagons. What are the rest doing?”
“Actually, ten, sir.
Arracca
’s and
Baalkpan Bay
’s Nancys and Fleashooters claim they at least disabled two more of ’em. The new fifty-pound bombs made outa four-inch shells apparently punch through the thinner armor covering the enemy fo’c’sles. It’s a smaller target, harder to hit, and they dropped a helluva lot of bombs! It cost us, though. The latest tally is eleven Nancys and nine Fleashooters lost. I’m sure the Grik got some of ’em, but most were probably collisions.”
Russ frowned. “Okay, but I repeat: what are the Grik doing now?”
“Aye, sir. Sorry. Last report is they’re underway. Six of those left anyway, along with most of their cruiserlike things. Looks like they’re comin’ out with everything they have.”
“According to recon, if we got as many as claimed, there should be nine battleships left,” Ellis reminded.
“Yessir, but three were moved over to the dock, and they’re just sittin’ there.
Baalkpan Bay
’s COFO says they must be broke. His guys dropped a few bombs on ’em until smoke started comin’ out their gunports, an’ he left ’em alone to go after the others.”
Jim nodded. “Okay. Six is plenty, anyway.” He looked at Russ. “All air from
Arracca
and
Baalkpan Bay
will stay after the ones coming out, but the ships—and all elements of First Fleet North—will stay out of their way, except us and S-19.”
“What about the DDs?” Russ asked.
“We hung a little armor on them, but not enough to matter against hundred-pounders. We know how that matchup worked last time.” Jim still talked a little funny, even though his jaw was no longer wired shut. “Des-Ron 9 will stay with the carriers and transports—and as soon as we tangle with the big boys, they’ll scoot in behind them and land their troops south of the harbor. Tell Captain Tassana she’ll have complete discretion with her landing force, but stay the hell out of the harbor! Those three wagons at the dock may be broke, they may not, but even if they are, they’ve got damn big guns!” He paused, considering the huge responsibility he’d just handed the young captain and High Chief of
Arracca
. The kid had guts and a big grudge against the Grik. She’d
ram
a battleship with her massive Home-turned carrier if she had to, and that’s part of what worried him. He consoled himself that she’d never do such a thing except as a last resort, however, and
as
a last resort . . . why not?
“One last thing,” Jim said, “I want air eyes on the Grik battleline, even if it means those watching have to stay out of the fight. I also want all the Fleashooters recovered and prepped for antiair, with their guns loaded. We haven’t seen any Grik zeps, and I want a CAP of Fleashooters on the prowl for them. It looks like the Grik—and Kurokawa himself, most likely—understand this is the big day, so we can expect every airship and suicider bomb they’ve got at some point.” He paused. “Send all that via wireless so everybody knows the score, then repeat it on the TBS.” He smiled slightly. “Tell Mr. Laumer it’ll just be him and us, and he’s about to get a chance to show us what that pork-bellied, silk purse of a pigboat of his can do after all.”
It wasn’t long before the handset on the aft bulkhead warbled and a ’Cat talker picked it up. “Mr. Monk,” she said, handing the receiver to
Santa Catalina
’s exec. Russ had left the bridge for a quick tour of the ship.
“Exec speaking,” Michael Monk said. “Okay, I’ll pass the word.” He handed the set back and spoke to Jim Ellis. “Air reports the enemy battleline has cleared the harbor mouth. Our lookouts in the crow’s nest would probably see their smoke by now, if not for all the smoke from the harbor.”
“Very well. Call the captain to the bridge and have S-19 proceed to her position.” It had been decided that the hybrid torpedo boat should place herself on the flank of the enemy’s projected line of advance, assuming they’d make for
Santa Catalina
as soon as they saw her—or as soon as she opened fire, declaring herself their most immediate threat. “Remind Laumer to keep a bows-on aspect to the enemy. His boat’s small enough they might not see her, and give all their attention to us.”
“Captain on the bridge!” cried a ’Cat, and Jim briefed Russ Chapelle.
“Yes, sir,” Russ said. “I hope we made the right call putting S-Nineteen out there all alone. It’s an awful clear day. Bernie Sandison figures the maximum range for his fish to have an even chance of hitting is about two thousand yards.” He frowned. “That’s inside hammerin’ distance for those Grik monsters, and one good whack is all it’ll take to crack S-Nineteen’s egg!”
“I know,” Ellis replied, “and I thought about keeping her tucked under our skirt, but three things nixed it. First, I hope we don’t have to
get
that close to the bastards!” There were nervous chuckles on the bridge. “Second, if we do, we’re liable to draw more fire down on S-Nineteen whether they see her or not.” He shrugged. “Finally, Mr. Laumer’d never forgive me. He and his guys have worked so hard and so long to save that old pigboat and turn her into something useful, they’ve earned a chance to throw some punches—and we need to know how well her torps work!”
“I guess,” Russ nodded. “I just hope Laumer remembers he’s fighting above his weight. He still strikes me as a kid who thinks he’s got something to prove.”
“Maybe,” Ellis allowed, rubbing his sore jaw and remembering a time he’d felt the same way. “Maybe we’ve all been there at one time or other,” he added quietly.
Russ said nothing. Jim Ellis’s confession explained a lot. There’d been a couple of times when Russ wondered about him, but he figured the commodore had outgrown such things. His performance at the first Battle of Madras had been courageous, but not crazy—or wastefully—brave. But who knew? Career officers often mystified Russ Chapelle. He’d achieved command of one of the most powerful warships in the Alliance, but never forgot he was “just” a jumped-up torpedoman. He knew what it was like to feel pressure to perform, to accomplish whatever task he’d been given to the best of his ability—but he also retained a strong sailor’s sense of what those under his command were capable of, and that their desire to prove themselves to someone was limited to each other, and maybe him, to some degree. He’d figured out a long time ago that despite being a “born” officer, that was why Captain Reddy inspired such loyalty. He fought for a cause he was willing to sacrifice everything for, but except for his hatred of their enemies, it wasn’t personal, wasn’t
about
him. He didn’t have anything to prove. And if he ever asked the unsurvivable from those under his command, everyone knew it was because there wasn’t any choice—and it wouldn’t be for nothing.
Russ was pretty sure Jim Ellis understood that as well. He was less sure Laumer did. His crew was certainly devoted to him and their strange little ship—but they
all
probably felt they had something to prove. He sighed.
“Sound general quarters, if you please,” he instructed his quartermaster, a Lemurian Sky Priest, or “salig maastir.” Those in that position weren’t always execs anymore, but they usually made excellent navigators.
“Ay, ay, sur,” the ’Cat replied. “Sound gener-aal quarters!” he repeated to a ’Cat signalman, who opened the shipwide comm circuit and commenced whacking a bronze-pipe gong on the port bridgewing.
“Black smoke an’ mastheads on horizon, bearing two eight seero!” exclaimed the talker. “No course, no speed, no range yet!”
“Very well. Helm, make your course two eight zero, engine ahead two-thirds.”
“Ay, ay! Makin’ my course two eight seero, ahead two-thirds!”
Russ turned to Monk. “This might take a while to develop, but you might as well get started for the auxiliary conn, Mikey.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Monk replied. “Good luck.”
“You too.”
Russ and Jim stepped out on the port bridgewing and watched S-19 speed away to the southwest. The weird little craft was already a thousand yards out and her silhouette really wasn’t much. What betrayed her most right then was the white wake her near twenty knots kicked up.
“They shouldn’t see her,” Jim said hopefully. “Not if she’s sitting still, bows-on. And Grik can’t see as good as ’Cats,” he added.
“No, sir,” Russ agreed, equally hopeful. “All the same, I wish we could’ve fixed her back up as a sub after all, right about now.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jim replied, forcing a laugh. “They’d’ve been working on her until the damn war was over, and she never would’ve been safe. Even Spanky said she only had one dive left in her—all the way to the bottom!”
“Yeah,” Russ agreed, but he couldn’t help wonder if, omniscient as Spanky undoubtedly was, he might’ve been influenced by his natural destroyerman’s aversion to submarines.
“Speaking of engineers,” Jim said, changing the subject, “what’s that damn Laney been up to? I haven’t seen him since Andaman. Is he living in the engineering spaces?”
Russ blinked consternation in the Lemurian way and nodded. “He’s got a rack chained up in the engine room, if you’d believe it.”
Dean Laney was, quite simply, an asshole. He’d been Dennis Silva’s chief enemy and rival on
Walker
since before anyone could remember, though a strange rumor now had it that they’d once been friends. In spite of his personality, though, Laney was a good engineer, and they’d tried to find something constructive for him to do ever since their arrival on this world. The problem was, he apparently did everything in his considerable power to make everyone hate his guts as a matter of principle. Whenever he’d been placed in a position of authority, those beneath him, ’Cats or humans, eventually rebelled against his petty tyranny. Only now, as
Santa Catalina
’s engineering officer, did it seem he’d finally found a place. That was good, because they’d just about run out of options, short of banishment. He must’ve known
Santy Cat
was his last chance, because even though his snipes still claimed to hate him, he knew more about the ship’s powerplant than anyone on the planet and they respected his knowledge. In his little realm encompassing
Santa Catalina
’s engineering spaces, he’d finally found a home where he could contribute something besides discontent to the cause.