Authors: TAYLOR ANDERSON
Crusade (29 page)
More “gravel” slammed into the plane. Many of the impacts were quieter that the first and he felt them more than heard them. They must have been in the wings. A final burst sounded directly overhead and it ended with an explosion of sound up forward.
“Goddamn it! What the hell is he?” Mallory screamed.
Ed lunged to the shattered blister, his hat instantly disappearing in the slipstream. Through squinted and watering eyes, he caught a glimpse of a winged shape swerving from starboard to port. He leaped back across the dead Lemurian and finally caught a good view of their tormentor. “It’s a
biplane,
” he cried into his borrowed microphone, incredulously. “Radial engine and three floats. One big one under the fuselage and two smaller ones under the wings. I swear to God it looks like a Stearman with floats! Two crew—pilot and spotter. The spotter has a gun too.” Ed grabbed hold of the .50-caliber machine gun in its pintle mount and prepared to open fire. There were flashes of light from the Japanese spotter’s gun before the plane began to bank toward quietehim.
biplane,
” he cried into his borrowed microphone, incredulously. “Radial engine and three floats. One big one under the fuselage and two smaller ones under the wings. I swear to God it looks like a Stearman with floats! Two crew—pilot and spotter. The spotter has a gun too.” Ed grabbed hold of the .50-caliber machine gun in its pintle mount and prepared to open fire. There were flashes of light from the Japanese spotter’s gun before the plane began to bank toward quietehim.
He berated himself. That’s exactly what he should have done from the start, if he’d known what was after them. The Japanese pilot must have used their leisurely exploration of the enemy fleet to work himself into what he thought was a one-chance attack. If Ben had thrown the throttles to the stops and slowly
climbed,
they would have had a forty-knot and ten-thousand-foot advantage. As it was, he, Lieutenant Benjamin Mallory, trained fighter pilot, had been bested in his first aerial combat by what was essentially an obsolete trainer with floats. It didn’t matter that he’d assumed the enemy was far more capable. He shouldn’t have assumed anything. Hindsight could hurt.
climbed,
they would have had a forty-knot and ten-thousand-foot advantage. As it was, he, Lieutenant Benjamin Mallory, trained fighter pilot, had been bested in his first aerial combat by what was essentially an obsolete trainer with floats. It didn’t matter that he’d assumed the enemy was far more capable. He shouldn’t have assumed anything. Hindsight could hurt.
“Ed,” he called over the intercom.
“Thanks for remembering me,” came the sarcastic reply. “I see you have at least stopped our uncontrolled plummet to the sea and the smoke’s not quite as bad.”
“Sorry about that,” Ben replied in his best upper-crust British accent. “One of our engines developed a bit of a . . . stitch and we thought it best to let it rest a while. We only have one other one, you know.” His voice turned serious. “What’s our troublesome little friend been up to?”
“He’s been coming in on our flanks, trying to get an angle on our engines, I guess. His last few tries have been to port. I guess he knows the other one’s out.”
“How are things back there?”
“One of the gunners is dead. I’ve been alone back here most of the time. I finally got the other one to snap out of it and he’s doing okay. I think he got a piece of the bastard on his last attack. He’s on the port side. Starboard’s a little unpleasant.”
“Understood.”
“Other than that, things are about the same. We’re a long way from home and almost out of ammo.”
“Can the gunner back there handle things for now?”
“Well . . . I guess.”
“Good. Then I want you in the nose turret.”
“The
nose
turret! Ben, this guy hasn’t come anywhere near the nose since he started.”
nose
turret! Ben, this guy hasn’t come anywhere near the nose since he started.”
“That’s about to change. Give all your bullets to the port gunner and tell him to hammer away the next time that Jap gets in range. He’s got all the bullets in the world, got it?”
“Sure, but . . .”
“That’s when I’m going to lower the wing floats.”
“What! Damn, Ben! That’ll just slow us down even further. We’ll be sitting ducks!”
“No, listen! If he thinks we’re about to set down, he’ll pull out all the stops. He has to
shoot
this plane down to destroy it. Once we’re down, he can shoot at it till he runs out of fuel or bullets—which he has to be getting low on—and not do any appreciable damage unless he gets another lucky hit on an engine. Besides, he’s bound to know our marksmanship would improve dramatically. Hitting a moving target from a stationary one is a lot easier than moving versus moving.”
shoot
this plane down to destroy it. Once we’re down, he can shoot at it till he runs out of fuel or bullets—which he has to be getting low on—and not do any appreciable damage unless he gets another lucky hit on an engine. Besides, he’s bound to know our marksmanship would improve dramatically. Hitting a moving target from a stationary one is a lot easier than moving versus moving.”
“Are we going to land on the water?”
“Not unless we have to,” Ben confessed.
“Why not? It sounds like the perfect plan. We’d have all the advantages. If we don’t shoot him down, we just wait till he flies away.” Ben cleared hlf the time I don’t know how I do it with two. You keep forgetting—I’m not a seaplane pilot. I’m still making most of this up as I go.”
Ed groaned. “Okay, Ben. I’m with you. And here comes our little friend, right on cue.”
“Get in the nose, Ed. As soon as he starts shooting, I’m lowering the floats. Anything could happen after that.”
Ed rushed forward. When he arrived, he was reminded just how much he hated the nose turret. It was built for guys a lot smaller than he was and it seemed like a stupid design. He had actually given it a lot of thought and believed he could have come up with something better. The first change would have been the emplacement of something more powerful than a measly .30-cal. It might have been a little cramped with a .50, but they could get a smaller guy. If they got a smaller guy to work the plane’s radios and help with navigation, that would be fine too. He put on the headset and racked the bolt, chambering a round.
“Aaaa-eeesh!” cried the gunner in the waist. “I chop him up good that time! Shoot up tail! Maybe kill gunner. Get even for my friend!”
“Where’d he go?” questioned Ben.
“Straight out, away. Direction . . . nine . . . nine clocks?”
“You get that, Ed? I think it’s working. Keep your eyes peeled.”
“I got it.” Palmer strained his eyes through the cloudy Plexiglas. The plane and all its components had been through so much, looking for a plane through the turret was like looking for a minnow in four feet of murky water.
In any event, it took much longer than any of them expected for the Dave to get around in front of them. Maybe it was being careful, or maybe it truly was damaged and had lost some speed. Whatever the reason, when Ed first saw the enemy plane, it was already closer than they’d hoped to spot it, but it was doing exactly what they’d expected: going for the PBY’s remaining engine from the front.
“There he is,” Ed announced, more calmly than he felt. “I can’t judge distance through this crummy glass, though. You’re going to have to tell me when he’s in range.”
“Uh, he’s already shooting at us, so whenever you’re ready . . .”
“Have you seen this can of ammo down here?” he demanded hotly. “This
one
can of ammo? I need him closer!” A few bullets began to strike the plane.
one
can of ammo? I need him closer!” A few bullets began to strike the plane.
“He’s getting closer!”
“Just a few more seconds!” Ed could see the plane clearly now. If it was damaged aft, he couldn’t tell, but it was coming straight in, yellow flashing from its single forward firing machine gun. More bullets were hitting the PBY and Ben’s voice grew more insistent. Even Tikker’s voice rose in an indignant shriek. Ed paid no attention—even when one bullet grazed the curved Plexiglas mere inches in front of his face. He was concentrating on the sights. They were crude and pretty much limited to known ranges, but he aimed carefully at the steady target of the biplane’s round engine, raised the sights a little, and started to fire. He wasn’t using short bursts like he ought to have; he was trying to hose out a solid wall of lead that the seemingly flimsy biplane couldn’t survive. Evidently, by the sounds of impact, that’s what the enemy hoped as well.
Finally, exultantly, he saw a flash and a gout of smoke erupt from the Dave’s engine, and the plane seemed to wobble as if the pilot was struggling for control. Ed let out a whoop, but an instan secondaries or fragments. Beyond the fortifications, Matt saw little change to the city he’d come to think of almost as home, but the fortifications themselves made a profound difference.
In the distance, tied to the old fitting-out pier, was
Mahan.
A wisp of smoke coiled from her number one stack and she seemed to be nearly half covered by Chief Gray’s new light gray paint scheme. Matt knew Jim wouldn’t be goofing around with paint if a lot of his ship’s other issues hadn’t already been resolved.
Mahan.
A wisp of smoke coiled from her number one stack and she seemed to be nearly half covered by Chief Gray’s new light gray paint scheme. Matt knew Jim wouldn’t be goofing around with paint if a lot of his ship’s other issues hadn’t already been resolved.
By contrast, if the city and its surroundings looked different now than they had when
Walker
led the Allied Expeditionary Force to raise the siege of Aryaal, the destroyer had changed just as much. Gone was her own dazzling light gray paint. Instead, the elderly ship was almost a uniform orange color, with heavy, darker streaks down her sides. Harsh red rust shone through the smoke-blackened sections, and the large numbers, 163, that had stood so tall and proud at her bow were nearly obliterated. Clusters of splinter wounds and a few larger holes were visible in her flanks, and streams of water coursed over the side as beleaguered pumps struggled to force it out of the overloaded, battered hull. Alone she would have been a dismal, dispiriting sight, but the hundreds of hollow-eyed, bedraggled Lemurians packing her top-heavy deck gave testimony to the greater tragedy.
Walker
led the Allied Expeditionary Force to raise the siege of Aryaal, the destroyer had changed just as much. Gone was her own dazzling light gray paint. Instead, the elderly ship was almost a uniform orange color, with heavy, darker streaks down her sides. Harsh red rust shone through the smoke-blackened sections, and the large numbers, 163, that had stood so tall and proud at her bow were nearly obliterated. Clusters of splinter wounds and a few larger holes were visible in her flanks, and streams of water coursed over the side as beleaguered pumps struggled to force it out of the overloaded, battered hull. Alone she would have been a dismal, dispiriting sight, but the hundreds of hollow-eyed, bedraggled Lemurians packing her top-heavy deck gave testimony to the greater tragedy.
Because of her arrival, even with all the preparations under way, thousands of people were on hand to witness her slow approach to the dock. The contents of the radio message detailing the events of the night had rapidly spread. There was no reason to conceal the fact that
Nerracca
and most of the people aboard her were lost. It would have been a greater shock to the morale of the defenders if they’d known nothing until
Walker
came in alone. The one thing that mitigated against total despair was the obvious fact that
Walker
had put up a hell of a fight and had saved as many as she could. So strong was the Lemurian faith in the old destroyer’s power, they felt sure if
Walker
looked this bad, surely
Amagi
was in much worse condition—if she had in fact survived. Most of them couldn’t conceive of the difference between the two ships’ relative size and power, and
Walker
’s daring, vengeful counterattack had been duly reported as well. It was still a somber crowd that waited to greet the survivors.
Nerracca
and most of the people aboard her were lost. It would have been a greater shock to the morale of the defenders if they’d known nothing until
Walker
came in alone. The one thing that mitigated against total despair was the obvious fact that
Walker
had put up a hell of a fight and had saved as many as she could. So strong was the Lemurian faith in the old destroyer’s power, they felt sure if
Walker
looked this bad, surely
Amagi
was in much worse condition—if she had in fact survived. Most of them couldn’t conceive of the difference between the two ships’ relative size and power, and
Walker
’s daring, vengeful counterattack had been duly reported as well. It was still a somber crowd that waited to greet the survivors.
Finally, a sharp, congratulatory
toot! toot!
and a cloud of steam issued from
Mahan
’s repaired whistle and the trancelike immobility of the crowd was broken. Dockworkers shouldered their way through and positioned themselves to catch lines thrown by destroyermen on the ship. Up close,
Walker
looked even worse and the smoke and steam that rose from her aft stacks resembled nothing so much as an exhausted gasp. Gangplanks were rigged and the stunned survivors began to disembark. Some were met by family or acquaintances who had already arrived on
Humfra-Dar
.
Big Sal
was in the bay but hadn’t yet reached the dock. No one aboard her would have any idea what had taken place.
Walker
flew only a cryptic signal as she churned past her lumbering old friend. “Glad to see you. Must off-load passengers before we sink.”
toot! toot!
and a cloud of steam issued from
Mahan
’s repaired whistle and the trancelike immobility of the crowd was broken. Dockworkers shouldered their way through and positioned themselves to catch lines thrown by destroyermen on the ship. Up close,
Walker
looked even worse and the smoke and steam that rose from her aft stacks resembled nothing so much as an exhausted gasp. Gangplanks were rigged and the stunned survivors began to disembark. Some were met by family or acquaintances who had already arrived on
Humfra-Dar
.
Big Sal
was in the bay but hadn’t yet reached the dock. No one aboard her would have any idea what had taken place.
Walker
flew only a cryptic signal as she churned past her lumbering old friend. “Glad to see you. Must off-load passengers before we sink.”
Most of the survivors weren’t met by anyone. They just wandered around in small, confused groups as though in a daze. Most were females or younglings who’d lost everything they ever knew. They’d suffered the trauma of leaving their homes and had nearly been killed at sea. Many of their loved ones were dead. Now they were cast on the shores of an unknown, alien land. Fortunately, someone in a position of authority had their wits about them, and squads of way. At the urging of officers, the crowd began to disperse and return to their now even more insistent chores. When a lane was cleared, the wounded were carried ashore. There were quite a few.
Matt watched from the port bridgewing while Sandra supervised below. Beside her still was Queen Maraan, giving support and encouragement to the injured—no matter where they were from. Matt’s admiration for the Orphan Queen had grown even greater than before. He knew she was a strong and respected leader to the people of B’mbaado, but she’d also shown herself to be wise and compassionate to her former Aryaalan enemies and strangers as well. He was certain she’d be a major unifying figure and a force to be reckoned with in the events that were to come. Beside him stood Chack, watching as well. The young Lemurian was tired but surprisingly alert after spending virtually the entire night in the crow’s nest. Matt nodded toward the queen.
“Go give them a hand if you want,” he said with a small smile. “Or you can hit the rack. It’s your choice.”
“If it makes no difference to you, Cap-i-taan, I will help the ladies.” He grinned.
“That’s fine, but be back aboard by the first watch. We’ve got a hell of a mess and the Chief’s going to need your help. Try to get some sleep between now and then. It’s going to be a busy night.”
“Aye, aye, Cap-i-taan.” Chack saluted him and bailed down the ladder. Matt shook his head. Very carefully, he tried to stretch. Not long before they opened Baalkpan Bay, he’d finally convinced Sandra to remove the rigid strapping that held his arm immobilized. He felt no pain at all from his ribs and the wound through his shoulder had healed remarkably well. That seemed to be the case with every patient treated with the infection-fighting goo. Sandra knew where it came from now—fermented polta fruit that was further processed in some seemingly mystical way—but she still didn’t know what made it work and she yearned for a microscope to study it with. Matt didn’t care what the stuff was so long as it worked and he was eager to get his considerably atrophied arm back in service. He stretched a little farther, tensing the muscles, and tried to raise the arm from his side. Salvos of pain shot in all directions, and with a wince he let the arm drop. The pain lingered, throbbing with heat, but as it began to subside, he tried again.
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