Maelstrom (42 page)

“Maybe,” Sandison agreed; then he pointed to the open lane in the minefield that led to it. “But if it doesn’t, we’ll have even more reason to curse them—only we probably won’t be able to.”

Gray nodded as another depth charge splashed over the side. “Yeah. Thank God this ain’t the main deal. I’d hate to think everything was riding on it.”

Silva stopped heaving on the next depth charge in line and wiped his brow. “What the
hell
do you mean, this ain’t the main deal?” he demanded between gasps for air. “We been doin’ all this work for a
sideshow
?” Shortly after 2100 that night, the new construction frigates, USS
Tolson
and USS
Kas
-
Ra
-
Ar,
displayed the proper lantern-light recognition signals, and were allowed to pass under the guns of Fort Atkinson.
Mahan
was waiting for them, having returned the barges to the yard. Now she signaled them to heave to and wait for a launch to bring a pilot to take them safely through the minefield. As the ships passed in the night, Jim Ellis saw they’d taken quite a pounding, and though their masts still stood they didn’t look new anymore. Of
Walker
and
Donaghey
there was no sign for almost another hour. Finally a flare went up, declaring an emergency, and
Walker
appeared, towing the wallowing, dismasted hulk of Lieutenant Garrett’s ship. The launch took Gray across so he could guide the two ships inside the bay. With her searchlights sweeping the surface of the water, the old destroyer picked her way into the clear, where
Tolson
took up the tow so she could move her battered sister to the new fitting-out pier that served the frigates. Reunited with
Mahan
,
Walker
and her own sister steamed back toward the city.

Matt yawned and rubbed his face while Gray sipped the coffee Juan had given him, and finished his report on the mining operation. It sounded like they’d managed a better job than expected. Like Gray, Matt was dubious about the last mine they’d set, but agreed it was worth a try. He thanked the Bosun and leaned back in his chair, stretching his shoulder muscles experimentally. They ached, but not much worse than the rest of him. He thought about how hard it must have been for the detail that set the mines, and imagined they were much sorer than he was. It had been a long day for everyone.

Walker
and her little squadron had indeed met the advance enemy force, and Matt now suspected their hundred-ship estimate had been conservative. He also believed they’d engaged the cream of the Grik fleet that day: most of their cannon-armed ships. One had been larger than the others, painted white, just like the curious ship Ben said had grappled with
Revenge
. He wondered what their significance was. He blinked his tired eyes. Not that it mattered as far as this one was concerned:
Walker
had destroyed it, along with as many others as she could, given the restriction Matt had placed on ammunition expenditure. Campeti had tried to destroy mainly gunships, to spare their frigates, but there’d still been plenty to occupy the new ships.
Tolson
,
Kas
-
Ra
-
Ar,
and
Donaghey
fought splendidly, savaging their foes with spectacular results—but there’d just been so many. . . . Lieutenant Garrett, in particular, fought his ship brilliantly—he had the most experience, after all—and maybe a little recklessly too. His ship wound up surrounded, where
Walker
couldn’t support her, fighting both sides at point-blank range. It had been a stirring, frustrating scene—the way it must have felt to watch Hawkins hurl himself at the Spanish Armada. In the end,
Donaghey
managed to destroy her tormentors, but Garrett’s ship was so badly damaged she might never fight again. Garrett survived—somehow—unscathed, but his sailing master exec, Taak-Fas, was dead, along with almost half his crew. Torpedoman Chapelle, his “master gunner,” was lightly wounded.

The battle ended near dark, uncomfortably close to the clustered Balabalangen islands and the bay. The sea was littered with derelict Grik ships, but those that could—about twenty—uncharacteristically fled back the way they’d come, and the destroyer didn’t pursue. The enemy retreat was surprising enough, but it was also well coordinated, and that set off warning bells in Captain Reddy’s mind. There was no smoke on the horizon that would indicate
Amagi
was near, but he felt the prickly suspicion of a trap nevertheless. It was as if, even as they tried to hold the enemy away, the Grik were attempting to force them back, to shrink their scouting range. Their mission, to prevent the enemy from approaching close enough to discover or interfere with the placement of the minefield, had been accomplished. But the Grik might have accomplished their objective as well, and Matt had to wonder who’d actually won the battle. Mallory flew over several times during the day, but with no radio they had to rely on spotty visual signals. As night fell and his Morse lamp became more visible, Mallory did confirm sighting the main enemy force northeast of Pulau Sebuku, clustered protectively around the battle cruiser. The news wasn’t unexpected, although it was dispiriting. Deep down Matt had continued to hope that, given enough time,
Amagi
might still just roll over and sink. For a fleeting instant he had a poignant thought of his father and the scorn he’d have heaped upon such wishful thinking. He sighed.

Wishful thinking wouldn’t solve their ammunition problems, either.
Walker
had sortied with another twenty of the “new” shells, reloaded with a solid copper projectile and black powder. As Ellis reported, the projectile worked okay, after a fashion. They went off, and even flew reasonably straight, but with a much lower velocity than the targeting computer was accustomed to, so local control was the only way to go. It also took every one they had to sink six ships. It went without saying that the copper projectiles would be worse than useless against
Amagi
. Sandison hadn’t been pleased to learn how the rounds performed when Ellis first told him. He, Garrett, and Campeti had plenty of ideas how to improve them, but they just didn’t have the time. They’d have to fight with what they had. He shook his head.

Looking out to starboard, Matt made out
Mahan
’s outline in the dark as the other ship closely paced them. It occurred to him that this was only the second time they’d steamed together since being reunited at Aryaal. That other time was only a brief foray when they’d played tug-of-war for
Mahan
’s propeller. Now, even if they were making only ten knots, Matt felt a sudden exhilaration. The sound of the blowers so close together, and the swish of the sea as they parted it between them, left him with a sense of companionship he’d missed. Jim Ellis was over there, on that other bridge, and Matt wondered what he was thinking. Maybe the same thing. He suddenly wished it were daylight so the people they defended could see the two destroyers steaming side by side in the bay. The sight might bolster their morale—at least until they saw what they were up against.

Without warning, Matt had a chilling premonition that this was the last time
Walker
and
Mahan
would ever be in formation again. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t shake the thought. It was as though the swishing sea were a ghostly voice warning the elderly sisters to say their final farewell, because one, at least, was doomed. Which one? he wondered with a heavy heart. Or would both face destruction when
Amagi
steamed into the bay? The moment ended when they neared the dock, and both ships reduced speed.
Mahan
went first to the fueling pier, where her bunkers were quickly filled. Then she moved briefly to the dock, where over half her crew went ashore, leaving fifteen human and twenty Lemurian volunteers aboard—just enough to operate her during the short part she would play. Half her remaining ammunition was off-loaded as well. It had been agreed that
Walker
would need it more than she.

In less than an hour,
Mahan
cast off once more, just as
Walker
was beginning to fuel. As she crept away from the lights on the dock, the jury-rigged Morse lamp on her port bridge wing quickly flashed: “Good hunting. Farewell.” Ellis emphasized his message with a long, harsh toot on
Mahan
’s steam whistle.

“Send, ‘Good hunting, God bless,’” ordered Matt. While
Walker
’s Morse lamp clacked, he watched
Mahan
fade into darkness, until she was visible no more.

Near the end of the midwatch, Dennis Silva was supervising the transport of vital tools and machinery from the torpedo workshop to their—hopefully—temporary storage, in hardened bunkers ashore. Everything that could be spared—the lathe, mills, cutters and bits, extra torches and acetylene bottles, their meager supply of spare parts—was being off-loaded . . . just in case. Dowden and a small detail had carried all the ship’s papers, logs, charts, manuals, and other documents ashore a short time earlier. Even the conduits and bundles of long-bypassed wiring were being stripped from the ship to save the copper wire. Earl Lanier, Ray Mertz, and Pepper gravely removed the restored Coke machine themselves. All told, it was a difficult task, and even though Dennis appreciated the necessity and approved the captain’s foresight in ordering it, the implications were ominous and disheartening.

He’d never been so tired. It had been a grueling day, and even his apparently inexhaustible and irrepressible energy had limits, it seemed. Laney would soon replace him with the morning watch, however, and hopefully he’d get a few hours’ sleep. The captain had already told them the morning general quarters alarm wouldn’t sound. He stopped on the pier, shuffling back from the bunker, and looked at the ship for a moment. She seemed strangely fuzzy in the humid, hazy air, and ephemeral sparks flew like fireflies from last-minute repairs. Her weirdly diffused searchlights beamed eerily downward, illuminating her decks and casting long, twisted shadows. They made her glow like some unearthly, mournful specter, and completing the surrealistic scene, a lively tune squeaked vaguely from Marvaney’s phonograph. Silva felt a sudden chill, and sensed he was moving toward his grave. He shuddered.

“She does look rather ‘creepy,’ as you would say,” came a girlish voice from the gloom, and the mighty Dennis Silva nearly pissed himself.

“What’re you doin’ here, goddamn it?” he demanded more harshly than he meant to.

“I came to see you.”

“Me?” He stopped, peering down at Rebecca’s tiny form. “What for? Why ain’t you with O’Casey or Lieutenant Tucker?”

“I ‘gave them the slip,’ and each thinks I am with the other. Besides, you are my other protector, and I’m perfectly safe.”

“Sure, you’re safe as can be around here, even without a watchdog. Least for now. ’Cats are swell folks. But what’d you wanna see me for?”

Rebecca sighed. “Dennis Silva, you are the most vile, crude, wildly depraved creature. . . . I never suspected such as you might even exist. The spectacle you made of yourself when we arrived! I would scold you for your shamelessness if I suspected you understood the concept of shame, but somehow”—she took a breath and shook her head—“I have come to care for you . . . to a small degree. I never had a brother, and have always been thankful for it—properly so, it seems—for I find myself thinking of you more and more in that unsettling role. My sense of propriety demands I despise you—and I do!—yet . . . I also find, like a brother, I suppose, I can’t help but love you just a bit as well.” She grimaced, as if at the foul taste of the words.

Silva cracked. Perhaps it was exhaustion or indigestion, or perhaps some soot from
Walker
’s stacks got in his eyes, but suddenly his face was wet with tears, and he’d gathered the girl in a tight embrace. “I’m a rowdy old scamp,” he agreed huskily into her hair. “Can’t help it. But I’d be proud to take you on as my little sister, if you make me. Maybe you can teach me a little about that word, ‘shame,’ you mentioned. Right now, though, you got to run along. I got to get that old ship ready for a fight, and pretty as she is, she’s got a quirk or two ol’ Silva’s got to straighten out.”

“You are unloading things from her in case she sinks!” Rebecca cried, suddenly tearful as well.

“Naw, she can’t sink. We’re just gettin’ a buncha loose junk out of the way. You’d be amazed how cluttered a place can get with nothin’ but sloppy guys livin’ there.”

“You’re lying. You need me, you and poor Lawrence as well. I can’t help but think something dreadful will happen to you both without me to watch over you—and just think how terrified he will be: his first battle, and no one to comfort him. . . . I don’t think anyone really likes him, you know.”

“I like him, even if he is a lizard,” Dennis assured her. “I already said I was sorry for shootin’ him.”

“It’s not the same. I must spend the battle aboard your ship. . . .” She paused, desperate. “You need me! You will need me before the battle is done; I know it!”

“Now, now, little girls underfoot is the last thing we need in a fight. Lieutenant Tucker’s gonna need you, though, and that’s a fact.” He set her down, wiping his eyes. “An’ one thing I need you to do, if it comes to it, is tell my gals I love ’em all. Would you do that? It’s Pam and Risa. I know you don’t approve, but I do love ’em both.” He smiled. “And you too, doll . . . I mean . . . sis.”

Rebecca burst into tears again, and clung to him like a rock in a confused, breaking sea.

“Now run on. I got stuff to do, or the Griks won’t have to get me; the captain will.”

“Very well.” She sniffed, releasing him. “Please tell Lawrence—”

“I will. So long now.”

She watched him turn and walk tiredly—dejectedly, it seemed—to join a group of Lemurians who’d passed them while they spoke, and together they crossed the gangway onto the ship. Still sniffling, Rebecca stood in the shadows for quite a while, looking back and forth. Eventually, convinced there’d be no more arrivals, she strode purposefully in the direction she knew she was supposed to go.