CHAPTER 24
////// The Great Raid
Grik Madagascar
August 4, 1944
The sea was choppier than General Queen Safir Maraan would’ve preferred as she approached the almost mystical homeland of her people in the jet-black, predawn darkness. Grik City was dimly lit by indoor lighting, much like the Grik outpost at Raan-goon had been, but even by that meager illumination, she could tell this place was much, much larger. She’d seen the drawings made by Miyata from memory, and the aviators from observation, and knew they were as precise as minds and hands could make them. She’d seen what the human destroyermen called “photo-graaphs,” however, and for perhaps the first time she understood why the failure to make the little machines that produced them, and the “film” they required, had recently become such a sore subject with her friends. They had some of the machines, probably enough, that had belonged to nearly every human American from any of their ships, but the film had just never been the priority they all now recognized it should have been. She shook the thought aside. Her friends had performed enough technical miracles, in her view. Sometimes the simplest, overlooked things could be decisive, but with everything else they’d been focused on, she forgave them—and the “backseaters” in the Nancys were chosen largely for their artistic skill, after all. . . .
She glanced around. Almost a hundred of the broad-beamed little landing craft surrounded her in this first wave of nearly four thousand troops. She couldn’t see many of them, but their four-cylinder engines rumbled in the night, and the turbulent foam kicked up by their dory-shaped hulls churned purple-gray around those nearby. She doubted they could possibly be seen from shore, but they might be heard when they drew near enough for the engines to drown the brisk surf here. Behind her, she saw no sign at all of the small fleet supporting them, not a light, or anything else that might give them away. Having disembarked the first wave, Salissa would be moving away, preparing to commence air operations. Amerika and the smaller support ships would join her when their similar task was complete. She was satisfied, and suspected they’d achieve surprise—at least for the critical time it took to establish a beach head. She hoped so at any rate. There was no telling what kind of Grik they’d encounter in this place.
She stared hard to the northwest, trying to observe the least glimpse of Walker and her little “mosquito fleet” of PT boats headed for the mouth of the harbor, but they were just as invisible. She missed the comfort of seeing the old four-stacker moving to attack the enemy fleet at anchor, but knew that whether she saw the sleek ship or not, it was there. That was better from the perspective of surprise, and good enough for her. Like most, she had absolute faith in Captain Reddy.
“It is not far now,” she said to General Grisa, whose 6th Division, minus the 3rd Maa-ni-la Cavalry, had won the honor of being the first ashore on what they were calling “Lizard Beach One.” It wasn’t a very imaginative name for such a momentous place; they’d used the designation before, on Say-lon. But they weren’t at Say-lon now, and there was no need to confuse the enemy—or the troops—with new code names. Besides, it somehow seemed appropriate.
“Yes, my gener-aal queen protector,” Grisa replied tartly. He was still distressed that she’d insisted on coming along with this first, and likely most dangerous element of the assault. Not even Captain Reddy or Adar had been able to prevent it. She still took her role as “protector” very seriously. Besides, Chack—the male she loved with all her soul—had been ashore for several days now, fighting northward against terrible monsters by all accounts, and nothing under the Heavens could’ve prevented her from joining him in danger after all the time they’d lost. A sense of uneasiness gripped her when she thought of Chack. Nothing had been heard from him for two days now. The communications division that was supposed to shadow his movements along the coast was still in contact, but Chack’s Brigade wasn’t. It had reported unexpectedly serious delays imposed by ferocious creatures. No Grik had been encountered, but apparently Miyata had been right about the bulk of Madagascar being kept as a preserve for examples of the many predators the Grik had discovered over time. She wondered why that would be. In any event, Chack’s last report had stated that he meant to strike hard and fast away from the coast by an avenue he’d discovered, and doubted he’d risk more runners, or even small groups, to carry further dispatches. Safir remained supremely confident that Chack would meet his objective, but she didn’t like his brigade being entirely on its own.
She blinked away that anxiety and focused on Grisa’s form in the darkness. “Do not sulk, Gener-aal,” she chided gently. “It does not suit you. I will not take a rifle and lead a charge of bayonets against the Grik, I assure you, as long as you do not either.”
“I will not,” Grisa answered in a clipped tone. “I am fully aware of my duties and responsibilities!” he jabbed. Safir laughed. “Indeed! I am most glad to hear it—though I already knew that, of course!”
They settled into silence as the beach grew closer, and the muted lights of Grik City sprawled beyond. One thing they knew about this place that was different from any other beach they’d landed on was that precious little cover was to be found between the city and the water’s edge. Much would depend on what, if any defenses the Grik had arranged, and how quickly they reached the outskirts of the rat maze of Grik City itself. If they were contested or delayed, their only hope would be to quickly dig in and wait for the successive waves to reach Lizard Beaches Two and Three, to disperse the defenders. And the shock of Captain Reddy’s attack on the harbor, of course.
Barely a hundred tails separated them from shore when there was a sudden series of flashes, like musket fire, not far beyond it. Bright, white-green meteors arched into the sky, casting a dull, flickering light on the surf as they fell. Immediately, more of the eerie flares went up. The Grik are shooting them from muskets! Safir realized. The Allies had always used flares, as well as signal rockets. But the color of these was utterly wrong, and none of her people would’ve used them now, in any case. There were murmurs of alarm in the boats, and the tension ratcheted up. “What other surprises has Kuro-kawa given them?” she wondered aloud. Raising her voice, she yelled as loudly as she could. “Quickly! Quickly! Surprise is lost! To the shore as fast as we can, and at them before they gather what wits they can find!”
A mighty muzzle flash blossomed in the night, then another, raising greenish splashes among the boats. Throttles roared all around her as the landing dories accelerated into the teeth of a growing number of cannon that spat fire and shrieking iron.
* * *
“Something woke them up,” Chief Gray observed, standing beside Matt on Walker’s port bridgewing. Like everyone else, he already wore his helmet, and the web belt with his .45 and cutlass. Walker’s crew had been at battle stations ever since she turned to close the harbor. The lookout had just reported flares and cannon fire from the northwest coast of the city, in the vicinity of Lizard Beach One, but his alarm had been unnecessary; the flashes were obvious to all.
“We’ll be opening the harbor mouth any minute,” Rosen called from behind the ’Cat at the big brass wheel.
“Very well,” Matt replied, glancing at Lieutenant Toryu Miyata, who’d joined the ship as the closest thing they had to a harbor pilot. He’d been a navigation officer aboard Amagi, and had actually sailed in and out of this very port, but he couldn’t tell them much about the channel other than that it was marked. He shrugged apologetically at Matt. “Maintain your course and speed for the moment, Mr. Rosen. We don’t know these waters at all. Any faster than one-third, and we’re liable to ram smack into the ‘Celestial Palace.’” He spoke to Minnie. “Have the lookouts keep their eyes peeled for Mr. Miyata’s channel markers, and tell Mr. Palmer he’s free to transmit on the TBS. Whatever Safir’s running into, our objective remains the same. Mr. Laumer will continue to advance his boats in line abreast of us, watching for shoals, then break off to go after the Grik BBs on the fringe. We’ll launch port torpedoes at the ships in the center of the enemy formation, but when we turn to give ’em the other side, Laumer needs to be out of the way!”
“Ay, ay! Cap-i-taan, lookout says he glimpsing Grik waagons in cannon flashes! They still right where we marked ’em!”
“Good. I hate surprises,” he answered wryly. “Mr. Sandison,” he said to Bernie, “everything set?”
“Yes, sir,” the torpedo officer replied anxiously. The Mk-3 Baalkpan Naval Arsenal torpedoes he’d helped design had proven themselves once before, but they’d also shown they could be dangerously fickle. He was far more used to faulty weapons than ones that worked, however, and he’d been tweaking and tinkering with those aboard ever since they left Madras. He looked back and caught Matt still watching him in the dim bridge lighting. “They’ll work, Skipper,” he defended.
Matt forced a smile. “I know.”
“Exec says the PTs to staar-board is lagging,” Minnie announced, and Matt crossed to look. Visibility was gradually improving, and he could see the uneven wakes of the three boats off Walker’s starboard quarter. It wasn’t that bad, but Spanky was probably nearly nuts with frustration on the auxiliary conn on the aft deckhouse. “Very well. Signal Mr. Laumer to get his ducks in a row.”
Matt knew Irvin Laumer would take the mild reprimand too much to heart. The kid still thought he had something to prove. But they did need to emphasize the necessity of keeping the torpedo boats glued to their predetermined attack patterns. Better to jump on them now than run one down once the shooting started.
“Jeez! Look at that!” Bernie murmured, barely audible over the blower. Matt crossed back to port. The fighting on Lizard Beach One was boiling up into what looked like some kind of surrealistic lightning storm, and Matt felt a pang of loss, realizing how many of his friends were catching hell over there. It wasn’t going all one way, however. Enough of Safir Maraan’s forces must have landed to keep steady fire on the defenders, and even a few light guns were joining the fight.
“Havin’ a hard time over there,” Gray remarked simply.
“There can be little doubt now that they did indeed see our reconnaissance flight and plan accordingly,” Commander Herring stated sourly, joining them. Matt looked at him. “No criticism, Captain. None at all!” Herring hastened to add. “We had to see what we faced, or we could’ve planned nothing ourselves. No, I was merely making an observation, and the conclusion it draws me to is somewhat unsettling.”
“They knew we were coming,” Gray interrupted, impatient with Herring’s manner.
“Indeed,” Herring said, “and they are obviously defending the beach, which implies that the enemy here is composed, at least partially, of the ‘new’ Grik that are capable of doing that!”
“But why would they have ’em here?” Matt asked, frowning. “Sure, they pitched in when they knew we were coming, but they couldn’t have known for long.”
Bernie scratched his jaw. “And why keep such a valuable force here—unless they knew we were coming all along, which I doubt too—to defend a place they’d never suspect needed defending?”
“They must train them here!” Miyata said, suddenly certain. He hadn’t spoken much since he came aboard, sensing a measure of hostility—mostly from Commander Herring, who, he understood, had been a prisoner of the Japanese—but this might be important. “They train them here where they can keep an eye on them—I saw Kurokawa’s first, vile experiments with my own eyes, but only now did the significance of that return to me! These ‘new’ Grik are very different, as your General Alden has reported, and I suspect they keep them separate from the vast majority of other Grik on the continent!”
“Makes sense, Skipper,” Gray grudged, “which might mean that maybe there’s not an endless number of ’em . . . but why? Why keep them from the others?”
“That’s obvious as well,” Herring said, bestowing a strained nod in Miyata’s direction, and earning a resentful glare from Gray for his condescending choice of words. “According to the AEF in India, their General Halik has turned his whole army into something more than ‘ordinary’ Grik. That might pose a problem, eventually, for their more, ah, traditional hierarchy.”
“You mean they’re afraid to teach most of their peon warriors to think,” Gray guessed.
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
The fighting on the northeast shore flared and strobed ever brighter—and began shifting south as well, as the reconstituted 5th Division came ashore at Lizard Beach Two. Whether there were numberless Grik here or not, Matt’s friends, his people were landing on a terrible shore, barren of cover, and invested with far better defenses than they’d ever dreamed. He ground his teeth.
“Well, I hope you’re right. But it won’t be long before we maybe give them a little something else to think about,” he said, his voice tight and sharp.
6th Division
II Corps
“We cannot just crouch here and take this forever, General Grisa!” Safir cried over the thunderous sound of battle. The division was dug in behind a hasty mound of sand, firing independently at the Grik cannon crews when they saw them in the flare of the flashing muzzles. “They will eventually chew us apart!”
“We are taking few enough casualties, now we are ashore,” Grisa said evenly, apparently trying to calm her. “The Grik have no exploding shells, and if they have canister, they have not used it yet. Our own artillery is now in place, and we do have exploding shells and canister. The enemy cannot close with us without suffering a terrible slaughter!”
It was then that Safir suddenly decided that, despite his worth, General Grisa had spent far too much time in the trenches around Alden’s Perimeter in India. “That is unacceptable! We cannot lie here and exchange jabs all day! And though Grik artillery practice remains poor compared to ours, either through inferior training or equipment, it is much better than it has been! We are too exposed, with nothing but the sea at our backs!”
“Exactly! With daylight, our navy will join the bombardment, as will our air power. That should discourage the Grik sufficiently to allow the fleet to pull us off the beach.” Grisa gestured at the slowly brightening sea. “Too many of our landing craft have been destroyed, so we must wait for more!”
“Pull us off?” Incredulous, Safir coughed, pointing to the south where the 5th Division was still leaping out of its own powered dories and scattering, prone, in open order. Roundshot was beginning to shower them with geysers of sand. “We are still only just getting here! We did not come all this way to drench this damp ground, however revered, with our own blood, take up handfuls of sand, and then depart! Are you mad? Soon the Grik will respond to our presence with firebombs as well as guns. We cannot survive that all day. We must move!”
“Where, my queen?”
“Toward the enemy, fool! While there remains some darkness. We must push the attack now or we will die here!” Her voice softened. “You are a good gener-aal, Grisa. One of the best. You have proven yourself many times, and your courage is not in question. But if you do not get these troops up out of the sand and attack this instant, I shall relieve you and do it myself! Is that clear?”
Grisa stared at her, stricken. “Y-yes, my queen. Very clear. But . . . I thought the whole point of this raid was to simply do it, to show the Grik that even their most important places are vulnerable, so they will slow their own attacks. If we press forward, might not our ‘raid’ grow into something more, unprepared for by other elements?”
Safir realized he was right, and finally recognized the great mistake that had been made. The specific objective of the operation had always remained a simple, careful, hopefully destructive raid. But too many of the various hearts that conceived it (even hers, she admitted) had their own opinions of how the raid should progress, and had simply assumed all others would come to share them when the moment was at hand. Adar’s ambiguous exhortations, despite his insistence on strategic control, and Captain Reddy’s desire to support Adar’s position, while sticking to the original concept in the vacuum of further discussion (that Adar had discouraged all along, she remembered now), had doubtless precipitated the current confusion. Grisa’s reaction was a prime example.
The apparent readiness of the Grik was a surprise, and to him that meant they must resign themselves to what was achievable with the fewest losses. The stated, strategic goal of the raid had already been realized as soon as the first shots were fired, and now it was time to protect his troops. But Safir Maraan had bigger aims, as did many others, she knew. Adar’s intent was utterly clear to her. She believed Captain Reddy, and even his mate, the Lady Saandra, ultimately shared Adar’s desire, whether they were prepared to admit it or not. Most important, she was completely certain what Chack meant to do, and as long as he was somewhere on the island, enduring whatever his brigade was facing, she simply wouldn’t leave. That left only one option for her, and by her next actions, every single soul engaged in the raid. She supposed some spontaneous act such as hers was what Adar had hoped for all along and she suddenly resented him for his unwillingness or inability to make it plain. Adar has been right all along, she decided. Someone has to be in charge. But Adar quite possibly isn’t the best choice for the job after all, at least not at the “pointy end.” She felt a wave of sadness. What did that mean for them today? More important, perhaps, what did that mean for the entire Alliance, the new “union ,” tomorrow?
“Is the TBS up?” she demanded.
“Yes, my queen—and we are already connected to the Fifth Division by the new field tele-phones. The comm section was the first ashore.”
“Very well. You will inform everyone within range of our voices, regardless of what devices are required, that our ‘objective,’ the ‘objective’ of Second Corps and every Allied being here today on land, sea, or in the air, is to kill Grik, General Grisa,” she stated without inflection. “We will kill them until there are no more—or until there are no more of us. Now carry out your orders!”
“Orderly!” Grisa snapped, his tail swishing excitedly.
“Gener-aal?” replied a ’Cat nearby.
“You heard?”
“Yes, Gener-aal!”
“See that the order is sent at once! Whistler!” he added to another ’Cat crouching beyond the first. Lemurians couldn’t manage bugles, but they made do with shrill whistles and drums. “Blow a preparatory call! Then, when I give the word, you will sound the charge!”
The sky over the harbor lit up, painfully bright, with a series of monstrous flashes. A few seconds later, there came another and another. Moments after that, the rumble of heavy detonations reached them where they were, all but silencing the Grik guns for an instant.
“Now, Grisa!” Safir cried. “Cap-i-taan Reddy has commenced his attack on the Grik fleet in the harbor! Sound the charge now!”
The whistler didn’t even wait for Grisa to repeat the command.
USS Walker
“My course is one two zero, Skipper!” Rosen cried, staring in the dimly lit pelorus. The flashing explosions amid the anchored Grik dreadnaughts actually made it harder for him to see the dark numbers on the card.
“Very well! Steady as you go! Mr. Sandison, stand by for torpedo action starboard! All lookouts will keep particular watch for shoaling water! Have Mr. Campeti commence firing at the cruisers with the main battery!”
Walker had just finished her turn after launching her port torpedoes, and that first salvo had been stunningly effective. At least two Grik ironclads had been completely destroyed by solid hits at a range of a thousand yards. One fish had missed, but apparently hit a pier where ammunition and other inflammables were stored, and the resulting concussive display was a magnificent thing to see. The PTs were doing good work too, having accounted for another pair of enemy dreadnaughts already, and their racing wakes were clear against the calm harbor waters as they jockeyed to make more attacks. Minnie was reporting Ed Palmer’s play-by-play account of overheard TBS traffic as Irvin Laumer coordinated his little mosquito fleet with a calm professionalism that made Matt proud. The biggest problems Walker faced now were the discovery that the deep water channel was much narrower than they’d assumed from the aerial recon, and the old destroyer had already actually dragged her groaning bottom across an unsuspected sandbar. Now, everyone was afraid they’d find another, more tenacious one—particularly when Commander Herring stated that, according to his calculations, the tide was on the ebb. Even more critical, the Grik were starting to “get their shit in the sock” faster than anyone had ever seen them do before, and Walker was taking return fire from undamaged dreadnaughts, as well as from a few of the cruisers nearby.
The salvo bell rang, still a little strange to those who’d served aboard from the beginning, since the old buzzer had been replaced by a Japanese alarm bell. The bright bloom of the salvo that followed was familiar, even if the converging tracers weren’t quite the right color anymore. The new “common” shells performed just fine when they hit the first cruiser, however, causing a series of bright yellow-orange flashes along its side.
“Cap-i-taan!” Minnie cried. “Mr. Paal-mer says Second Corps is chargeen the Griks! They goin’ for broke, and Generaal Queen Maraan says we takin’ this place!”
Matt took a deep breath. He felt a little sick, but had to admit he wasn’t really surprised. He’d known it. Known it, all along. Adar’s hints, Safir’s enthusiasm, Chack’s drive . . . It had been inevitable that when they actually got here and got stuck in, there’d be no stopping them. He sighed. He’d warned, he’d cautioned, he’d practically pleaded—but deep inside, he’d known. Despite how close he’d grown to his Lemurian friends, there remained a fundamental difference between them. He hated the Grik, and the war had turned very personal for him after all the people he’d lost, but to him, Madagascar remained just a place, another strange chunk of land occupied by the enemy on a very strange world. He’d go there and fight the Grik because that was where they were, and the place was important to them. Ultimately, though, Madagascar was far more than just a “chunk of land” to the Lemurians; it was their sacred, ancient homeland. There’d never really been a realistic chance they wouldn’t try to wrest it away once they returned at last.
“Very well,” he acknowledged, rubbing his eyes. The churning in his stomach was passing, crowded out by a familiar exhilaration he never could explain. “Make sure everybody got that, and knows we just went all in. Oh, and send to Adar that I’m okay with it—nothing I can do about it now, anyway—but we need to have a long talk when all this is done.” He hoped his failure to confront Adar, to confront any of his friends and force a commitment to stick to the plan or confess their true intentions, wouldn’t come back to bite them in the ass.
“Stand by!” Bernie cried. “Fire one! Fire three! Fire five!”
The ship jolted slightly with each impulse charge from the rigged-out torpedo tubes, and Matt saw the concave splashes of the weapons. It was much lighter now, and he even saw the churning, bubbling wakes rise to the surface and lance toward the enemy. Then, without even the warning of near-miss splashes, several heavy shots struck Walker almost simultaneously in what was likely the greatest example of Grik gunnery ever performed. The lights went out, and the ship staggered beneath Matt’s feet with an audible screech of pain. A bright flash aft lit the right side of his face, and he suspected the fuel drums for the Nancy had been hit. The plane itself had been launched some time ago and was orbiting now, sending reports of the action. He looked toward the stern. Sure enough, at least one drum had ignited, and even as he watched, hoses tried to spray the burning fuel over the side. Spanky’s gun crew on the aft deckhouse had probably been singed, but wasn’t even paying attention, so fixed on plying the number four gun. “Damage report,” he demanded.
* * *
Lieutenant Tab-At had been at her preferred combat station near the throttle control, but now she bolted aft through the forward engine room, undogged the hatch, and ducked into the aft engine room. The only light was the dawning gleam coming from the overhead skylights, and it wasn’t much. As her eyes adjusted, she was immediately met by a body, facedown, lying on the grating at her feet. There was a tremendous amount of noise in the space, mostly yelling, but some screaming too. All came to her over the thunder of rushing water. “What the hell’s goin’ on in here?” she roared.
An ex-pat “Impie gal,” machinist’s mate 3rd, named Sitia, met her with wide eyes and a bloody forehead. “We took two rounds in here!” she cried. “One was high in the side, an’ didn’t do much damage, but the other came in at the waterline right behind the aft main junction box! Pieces o’ that hit me—an’ others.”
“Reroute all power through the forward main!”
“We tried!” The girl seemed close to panic. “There’s nothin’ left to do it with! I already called damage-control parties aft. There’s a bigger leak in ship’s stores, under the guinea pullman, an’ we had to send guys. We musta took another hit there!”
Tabby trotted on until she saw the wound in the compartment. A lot of water was coming in, pouring directly down on the still-spinning 25-kilowatt generator that was atomizing the spray. She swore. “Close the steam line an’ secure the damn generator! Call the guys back. Seal off stores, an’ get ’em to work patchin’ that! We gonna lose the engine room an’ starboard shaft, we don’t stop this water!” She moved toward the heavy Bakelite handset but swore. Instead, she dashed to the voice tube. “Bridge!” she shouted. “Aft stores is gone, an’ we got floodin’ in the aft engine room! I need more help back here, an’ ’specially EMs if you want ’lectricity back!”
“How bad’s the floodin?” came Minnie’s tiny, tinny voice.
Tabby gauged the inrushing water. The hole was big, and the more water they took, the more they’d take. If the weight pulled the stern down low enough, they’d take water from the higher puncture too. “We don’t stop it in ten damn minutes, we gonna lose the space, the engine, an’ maybe the whole goddamn ship!”
* * *
“We must break off, Captain Reddy!” Commander Herring insisted. “We have crippled the enemy fleet, but your ship is badly damaged and we can’t afford to lose her!”
“I’m well aware of that, Commander,” Matt replied, still staring through his binoculars at the effect of their salvos on the “cruisers.” Some were burning, but a few had raised steam. Bernie shouted, “Now!” and Matt redirected his attention to the BBs they’d targeted with their torpedoes. Several seconds later, tall columns of water rose alongside two more of them and collapsed down across the armored casemates. Even as he watched, a flight of Nancys stooped on the remaining ships, protected from his fire by their sinking sisters, and bombs tumbled away from the planes, impacting with yellow flashes and white clouds of smoke.
“We’re running out of room, Skipper,” Rosen reminded.
“Very well. Right full rudder. Come about to course two six zero.”
“Right full rudder, aye. Making my course two six zero!” Rosen acknowledged without inflection.
“Captain Reddy!” Herring persisted. “That course will take us even closer to the enemy!”
Matt took his eyes from the binoculars. “One more gun pass, then we’re out of here. Those cruisers are getting underway. If the planes don’t get ’em, they’ll cream the PTs that are out of torps. Signal Mr. Laumer to break off,” he called to Minnie. “We’ll cover his withdrawal.”
Herring gestured out to sea. “Let the sailing DDs handle the cruisers!” he suggested.
“They probably can,” Matt agreed, “but they’re not as well armored—and it’s already too tight in the channel to let them in here. They’d have to wait outside, and if just one or two of those cruisers get past them, they can clobber the transports off the beach!”
“Order Amerika to join them.”
Matt shook his head. “Amerika stays with Big Sal. If everything does go to pot, we’ll need her to pull our people out of here.”
“My course is two six zero,” Rosen reported.
“Very well.”
With the electricity out, Walker’s guns were firing in local control, which eliminated their ability to concentrate on a single target, but at the speed and range they were engaging the enemy, it didn’t much affect their accuracy. The ship was growing logy, though, as more water gushed into her aft spaces despite Tabby’s, and now even the Bosun’s best efforts at shoring. One of Irvin’s PTs had been destroyed, speeding too close to a fire-vomiting dreadnaught, but other than that, and Walker’s wounds, the battle that began so chaotically seemed to be getting under control. The Nancys and Mosquito Hawks of Salissa’s 1st Naval Air Wing were fully engaged, now that it was light enough for them to tell friend from foe. No enemy zeppelins, or other unsuspected aircraft had been encountered, and they were free to punish the Grik ships in the harbor, or the warriors still massing to face II Corps. Under the command of the recently promoted General Mersaak, 3rd Division had gone in as a reserve for 6th Division on Lizard Beach One, instead of where originally planned, when Safir Maraan charged the enemy formation in front of her. That charge had been initially successful, and Grisa’s division had managed to push the Grik out of their forward positions and capture a number of guns. It had required bitter fighting, though, of a sort somewhat like what they’d seen on the Madras Road in India. Never had the Grik shown such stubborn resistance to a charge! Now 6th Division was largely spent, for the time being, and had to wait for the 3rd to move forward. Interestingly, once they were on its flank, the Grik in front of 5th Division pulled back as well, and Safir Maraan wasn’t at all happy about what that implied.
All this information came to Matt via TBS as his ship steamed west, across the mouth of Grik City Bay, booming away at the Grik cruisers trying to sortie against her. There was little incoming fire at present since most of the cruisers’ guns were mounted in their sides and they were coming straight for her. Matt thought there were only three left, and they were all damaged to varying degrees. He grunted. Laumer’s surviving boats had just sped past at last, and now it was time to take Walker out as well. He looked ahead at the shoaling water and frowned. The lookout in the crow’s nest high on the foremast behind the bridge hadn’t passed a warning, but they were cutting it much closer than he’d have liked.
“Right full rudder, Mr. Rosen,” he commanded. “Make your course zero four zero. Minnie, what’s Tabby’s status? We’ll make for Big Sal and add her pumps to ours if we need to.”
“My course is zero four zero, Captain,” Rosen announced several moments later while Minnie consulted with Tabby.
“Very well,” Matt said, staring aft now. He felt a little better. He knew there was desperate fighting on land even then, and it was likely to get worse, but regardless of how that turned out, his “little raid” had been amazingly successful already. Vast towers of smoke piled high in the morning sky, and with just his ship, a few small PT boats, and a little help from Keje’s and Jis-Tikkar’s naval air, they’d laid a whole fleet to waste! It was a heady moment. Now, if things went well ashore, there was no telling what they might accomplish—or what they’d do next, he suddenly brooded.
“Tabby say she’s gettin’ ahead of the floodin’ at last, an’ we have ’lectricity back shortly,” Minnie proclaimed. “She not bitch—’scuse me, Cap-i-taan! She not complain if Big Sal help pump us out, though.”
“Very well,” Matt agreed, gazing out over the fo’c’sle. They’d pass fairly close to the western headland as they exited the bay, but the channel markers—great tree pilings driven into the sea bottom with faded red pennants fluttering in the freshening breeze—were clear.
“Look at that, Skipper!” Bernie said, pointing out to port. Hundreds, thousands of Grik were beginning to line the shore, waving weapons and clashing them together. They’d probably started coming out of their defenses west of the city at the sounds of battle behind them. Most of Walker’s crew had seen similar sights many times now, and even from their perspective of relative safety, the ravening mob just a few hundred yards away stirred anxious feelings. The Grik cries were muted by the wind, sea, and the blower, but the familiar hissing roar raised goose bumps and hackles. Impulsively, Bernie made an energetically rude gesture at them, then glanced apologetically at Matt. “Sorry, sir.”
“That’s okay. I was tempted myself. Maybe we can throw something more harmful at them, though.” He stepped back into the pilothouse and addressed the talker. “The number four gun will continue firing on the cruisers aft, but have numbers one and two commence firing on that enemy concentration.”
“What about the secondary baattery?” Minnie asked. The frustrated Grik were in easy range of the ship’s 25 mm, .50 cals, and even .30s.
“The twenty-five and thirty cals can play, but not the fifties.” Matt gave Bernie an encouraging smile as the torpedo officer joined him by the captain’s chair. “Despite Mr. Sandison’s other miracles, we only recently got the brass drawing process for the fifties sorted out. There’s still a shortage.” He looked at Rosen as Minnie passed the word and the salvo bell rang to warn all hands that the main guns would fire and they should cover their ears. “All ahead two-thirds,” Matt ordered. “Let’s join Big Sal as quick as we can. Tell Tabby to holler if she needs us to slow down.”
“Ay, ay.”
Even with the sporadic jolts caused by her 4"-50s, the crackle of the .30 cals, and deeper booming of the 25s, Walker still felt sluggish beneath Matt’s feet, but he sensed her speed begin to build as her shafts dutifully wound up. Still, the old destroyer hadn’t quite reached seventeen knots when she slammed hard aground on a shifting sandbar that even the Grik probably hadn’t known was there.
Matt and Rosen were the only ones on the bridge who managed to keep their feet during the abrupt deceleration. It was a somewhat mushy impact, thank God, due to the nature of the bottom she struck, but it was intense enough that nobody with nothing to hold on to could possibly remain standing. Matt had his chair, Rosen had the wheel, but nobody else in the pilothouse had anything at all. Minnie slid across the deck strakes, her headset ripping free, and tumbled into the forward-bridge plating near Matt’s legs. Bernie practically somersaulted over the back of the chair and smacked his head on the footrest. Herring and a couple of the ’Cats went down and slid forward as well, grabbing for anything they could. ’Cats on the bridgewings managed to hold on, but their feet went out from under them.
It was worse on the fo’c’sle. To Matt’s horror, a couple of ’Cats were actually pitched, headlong, over the side, and those not sitting on the “bicycle seats” on either side of the number one gun cartwheeled into the splinter shield or the low spray shield just in front of it. All firing had stopped. Matt lurched to the lee helm and slammed the lever to “all stop” before anyone else had a chance to rise. He didn’t feel the telltale vibration of the screws churning the bottom, but they had to stop the engines before they did. He also knew that, as bad as things had been among those he could see, the surprise stop would be most painful to those in the hot, machinery-filled, engineering spaces.
“Up! Up! On your feet!” came the bellow of a Lemurian bosun’s mate in a creditable imitation of Chief Gray’s manner, if not tone. “Get back to your stations!” the ’Cat continued. “This ain’t no time to loll around on deck!” Minnie scrambled for her headset, but Gray’s distinctive voice was already blaring out of the speaking tube.
“What the hell?” he demanded. “Tabby’s shutting down the engines, but all hell’s broke loose down here! Hell, an’ everything else! Everybody’s hurt, and we got at least two dead!” The repeater on the lee helm clanged to “all stop” even as the rumble of the shafts started to fade.
Matt limped slightly to the voice tubes. He must have strained his old thigh wound somehow. “You okay, Boats?” he demanded.
“I’ll live,” came the somewhat aggrieved reply. “And Tabby looks okay, but some ain’t.”
“We must’ve hit a sandbar,” Matt explained. “Too much glare on the water. The lookouts couldn’t see the bottom coming up, and we were moving too fast for soundings.” He paused. “My fault.”
“Don’t even think about that silly crap right now,” Gray scolded. “What’ve we gotta do to get off? We had the low hole in the aft engine room just about stopped up, . . .” He paused. “But we’ve ridden up a little forward. That’ll press the stern lower, put more pressure on the leak. We might’ve sprung some bottom plates too. What’re the tides like around here?”
Matt looked at Herring, who was dabbing at a cut on his chin. Herring caught his gaze and shrugged. “I’m not sure, Captain. Perhaps half a fathom? Maybe more.”
“Not good, Boats,” Matt relayed, “and it’s ebbing. We have to back her off now, or we’re stuck until the next high tide, at least. Bring the engines up slow,” he said to Gray, and the bridge in general.
“Skipper!” Bernie called, back out on the bridgewing. “Those Grik cruisers are getting closer!”
Matt nodded. “We need to get some air down on those things,” he told Minnie, who was trying to arrange her helmet back over the headset.
“I already tell Ed to call Big Sal,” she replied.
“Big Sal could pull us off,” Herring suggested, then pointed east toward where the new day had revealed the DDs of Des-Ron 6. “Or they could.”
“None of ’em can get here before those Grik cruisers do—and I don’t want ’em tangling with them in any case. Hopefully, our air or our guns can sort them out before they become a bigger problem. What’s Campeti got to say about the main battery?”
“He just report that all guns is manned an’ ready again, but we got problems with the gun director.” Minnie blinked confusion. “It ‘jump its track,’ er somethin.”
“Tell him to have all guns resume firing at will, in local control,” Matt ordered.
Two of Walker’s four guns reopened against the closing cruisers while numbers one and two resumed a more leisurely fire on the growing Grik horde packing the beach. Muddy water churned up along the destroyer’s flanks as her screws strained to pull her off the sand. “All astern, full!” Matt said calmly, even as it became increasingly clear that his ship was badly stuck. He contemplated having the crew rock the ship, but doubted it would do any good. Smoke piled high in the air, slanting downwind of three tall funnels, joining the brown-gray puffs from the guns. The deck throbbed in time with the groaning shafts, and the windows rattled in their panes, even as the main blower impotently roared behind them.
“Spanky—I mean, the exec, Mr. McFaarlane, say the number four gun has did for another cruiser, but they all gonna drown, aft, as much water as the screws is throwin’ up!” Minnie alerted them after what seemed a very long time, but was probably just minutes. “He say we might as well save the fuel an’ the strain on the old gal.”
Matt nodded reluctantly.
“Captain,” Herring called quietly, but urgently, from the port bridgewing.
“Signal ‘all stop,’” Matt ordered. “Tell Mr. McFarlane and Mr. Gray that we’ll have to think of something else. Where are those planes? We’ve still got another cruiser out there!” he added when a series of splashes caused by a skipping shot rose alongside. “What is it, Mr. Herring?”
“Sir, you need to see this. I think we have another problem!”
“Surely not,” Matt replied, unable to mask the sarcasm as he joined Commander Herring.
“Yes, sir.” Herring lowered his binoculars and pointed. “You may have noticed that the Grik on shore are closer now.”
Matt shook his head, but then realized it was true. “My God. With the tide going out, the sandbar’s rising above the sea!”
“Yes, sir!” Herring hesitated. “Ah, surely the sandbar won’t allow them to actually reach the ship, will it? I mean, there’s bound to be some distance of water left between us and the shore . . . at low tide . . . isn’t there?”
“I’d hope so, Mr. Herring,” Matt answered grimly, “but even if there is, it might not matter much. The shallows’ll be full of flashies for a while yet, but they’ll go deeper as the day progresses. Even then, if these Grik here are the ‘old style,’ they won’t much care about losses if they think they can get at us. Our most pressing concern remains that last Grik cruiser, but we might start thinking about preparing to repel a helluva lot of boarders, shortly.”
Herring gulped. “I’ve, uh, never fought the Grik—like that—before,” he reminded.
Matt rubbed his face. “You might just get to today.”