Maelstrom (52 page)

A 5.5-inch shell exploded against the tall foremast behind and above their heads. With a tortured shriek of tearing steel and the high-pitched wail of the lookout, the whole thing crashed into the sea to starboard. Still secured by a twisted spiderweb of cables and stays, it began pounding against the hull. Two more heavy blows aft pitched Matt forward against his chair. Distractedly, he thought either his hearing was better or the explosions were very loud. Reynolds had recovered himself and was screaming into his microphone in frustration, apparently getting no response. The number one gun fired.

Gray was up now, pointing through the shattered windows. His mouth was moving in a shout, and Matt thought he heard the word “
Mahan.
”

“What is it?” Kurokawa demanded, when he heard the excited cries sweeping like a wave across the bridge from port to starboard.

“Enemy destroyer off the port beam, sir! Closing fast!” came the alarmed reply.

“But . . .” Beyond that, he couldn’t speak. The American destroyer was in
front
of them! It was still burning—although it did seem to be moving now. . . .

Sato Okada seared him with an expression of utter contempt. “Surface action,
port
!” he shouted. “Commence firing, all guns,
commence firing
!”

Ahead of them,
Walker
had completed her turn. Her bow lit with the flash of her number one gun, and an instant later the forward part of the bridge near the helm exploded in upon them with a terrific blast and a searing ball of flame. From where he lay on the debris-strewn deck, Sato heard Kaufman’s gleeful laugh.

Jim Ellis released the wheel and crouched on the splintered strakes just before
Mahan
crashed into
Amagi
’s side at almost fourteen knots. He slammed against the base of the wheel and fell back on the deck. Wincing from the pain of several cracked or broken ribs, he struggled to rise. Impossible. With a gasp, he sprawled backward. Strange, kaleidoscopic lights flashed through the hundreds of holes in the front of the bridge, and cables and shredded conduit dangled from the overhead.
Mahan
’s bridge had drawn a terrifying volume of fire during that final approach. Miraculously, Jim didn’t think he’d been badly hit, but he was certain he was the last man alive in the forward part of the ship.

He clenched his teeth against the pain and tried to rise once more. To his surprise, he felt a pair of hands under his arms, helping him to his feet.

“You go!” came an urgent, heavily accented voice. “Go, go! Time . . . small!” Jim shook his head, amazed by how quiet it suddenly seemed. The blower still roared behind him, but the shooting had all but stopped. There was a great rumbling, crunching sound forward, as
Mahan
still drove against the side of the Japanese ship.

“I can’t go. I have a job to finish!”

The Lemurian fixed him with intense, desperate eyes, and Jim suddenly realized who it was. “I do!” said Saak-Fas. “I help make ready! I know, I . . . do!” The Lemurian straightened to his full height. “I
need
do!”

Jim looked at him, but it was hard to see through the darkness and the blood running in his eyes. “It’s my ship. My responsibility,” he gasped. The ’Cat gestured to a form on deck. It moaned.

“ ’Spons-baal-tee?”

Torn, Jim could only stand rooted to the deck. He felt it beginning to settle. Suddenly the Lemurian blinked and began making his way to the ladder at the back of the pilothouse. “I
do
! No time!” With that, he disappeared down the ladder. Realizing he had no choice, Jim staggered to Bernard Sandison, lying in a pool of blood, and began dragging him toward the ladder.

Saak-Fas stepped lightly down the companionway stairs to the passage leading to the wardroom. The lights were dim and flickering, but that didn’t matter; he could see as well in the dark as the Amer-i-caans could in daylight. Down yet another ladderlike stair, he entered the crew’s forward berthing space. Water was half a tail deep on deck, and more gushed in through great rents in the side of the ship. Forward he sloshed through the rising water, until he came to the passageway leading to the chain locker. The collision damage was more evident here. The deck was buckled beneath his feet and the water was clammy and slick with oil leaking from ruptured fuel bunkers below.

He’d rarely been
in
the water before, except for baths of course. Other than surf, he’d never stood in seawater up to his waist. That just wasn’t done. He felt a chill at the thought that some flasher fish might somehow have wriggled into the ship, but he knew it was unlikely. Most of the holes were probably too small, and besides, it was after dark. He stopped at the entrance to the passageway and looked inside with a sense of growing peace. The ordeal he’d suffered at the hands of the Grik still tortured him. He’d fought to suppress the terror, the agony of that experience, knowing that somehow, if he did, the Heavens would reward him with the opportunity now at hand.

It had been so hard at times, the added misery he heaped upon himself. The rejection of his beloved Selass, his self-imposed isolation from his people. But everything he did to torment himself further had helped create the buffer that now existed between his mind and the real pain and lingering terror that threatened to drive him mad. He’d passed the ultimate test, and now the reward was near. He looked fondly at the twelve half-submerged depth charges jumbled in the passageway by the collision. He smiled at the feeling of unaccustomed happiness that slowly filled his being. He’d savor the short additional time he’d give the Amer-i-caan, Ellis, to try to get clear. Then he’d strike a mighty blow against the hated Grik and finally end his agony in the same, glorious instant.

“Hold them back!
Hold
them!” Pete Alden bellowed. Even as he did, the volunteers from Manila broke. It was like a heavy cable supporting far too great a weight. The strands began to separate and fray, snapping and protesting as they did, but inexorably, as the cable began to thin, the strain on the surviving strands became ever greater. Finally, inevitably, it snapped. It wasn’t really their fault. The small contingent of Maa-ni-lans had received the least amount of training of any of the defenders, and someone on the other side may have been savvy enough to notice that their short section of the line was a little softer than the others. They’d been hammered mercilessly ever since the start of the fight as well, and their numbers had dwindled by more than half.

With a wild, triumphant, hissing roar, like the sound of heavy surf pounding against the rocks, a densely packed mass of Grik sent them reeling back. A wedge was driven between the intermingled First and Fifth Baalkpan on the left, and Company B, First Marines, and the
Humfra-Dars
on the right. What ensued was a wild melee like nothing Pete had yet seen since the long, long battle began.

Bellows of rage and screams of agony intermixed with the harsh clanging of weapon on weapon and shield on shield. The terrifying jaws and sickle-shaped Grik swords and claws slashed and tore and hacked their way through the line, while the defenders did their best to close the gap. Inexorably, the line peeled away from the break as the defenders tried, instinctively, to re-fuse their new flanks, and the Grik pressed even harder. Pete had a sick, sinking feeling in his gut, and he could almost see the entire line rolling up from within, and marauding, slaughtering Grik surging unopposed through the city pathways. The end of everything was as clear before him as if it had already happened.

Suddenly the ripping sound of a light machine gun, one of
Mahan
’s .30’s most likely, chattered above the seething, shrieking mass. Then came the stutter of a Thompson, then two. Soon a steady crackle of rifle fire joined in. Chack must have committed his rifle company at last. Alden remembered his last conversation with the remarkable young Lemurian, and he only hoped he hadn’t waited too long after all. For just an instant, the Grik penetration hesitated, confused.

With a wild, high-pitched squall like hundreds of maddened cats, and shouts of “B’mbaado! B’mbaado!” Queen Maraan’s personal guard, with their silver sunbursts on jet-black shields, rose from behind the low secondary redoubt and slammed into the teetering Grik with a berserk frenzy. Without hesitation Pete joined the charge, emptying his automatic pistol almost as fast as he could slide magazines into it. His staff joined in, swinging their swords. The counterattacking force was far smaller than the enemy breakthrough, but the effect of the attack was all out of proportion to the numbers involved. The Grik staggered back, away from the devastating blow. Those directly at the point of contact turned to flee in wild-eyed panic. Finding their escape blocked by those behind them, they turned their weapons on their comrades—even as they were cut down from behind.

Pete watched in dumbfounded amazement as the catastrophic breakthrough degenerated into another kind of catastrophe—for the Grik. The battle to escape became a real battle, Grik on Grik, as those caught within the Baalkpan defenses fought against those still trying to get in. Because they were sandwiched between their own kind and the frenzied defenders, the breakthrough was quickly exterminated. And yet . . . something of what happened within the wall seemed to take hold beyond it. A small nucleus of panicked warriors had escaped destruction and continued fighting their way through the press. The entire attack ground to a halt while the situation in front of the breach sorted itself out.

Queen Maraan appeared beside him to his right, looking over the wall. She was panting heavily, bloody sword in hand. “It looked like we would break them for a moment, just as we did at Aryaal,” she gasped. “It’s like they cannot comprehend defense. If they are not attacking, they are losing.” She shrugged. “But they are so many.”

Pete stared at her, struck by sudden inspiration. He hadn’t been at the Battle of Aryaal, and hadn’t seen what she had. In the heat of battle, he’d completely forgotten Bradford’s crackpot theory. Then, over her head, and far out in the bay where the flashes of
Amagi
’s guns had become so common, there was another mighty flash, much bigger than the others. A sheet of fire vomited into the sky, and
Amagi
’s stricken silhouette was at the very heart of the massive plume. Many others saw it too, on both sides, and the fighting became almost desultory as thousands of heads turned toward the bay. The noise of the explosion, when it came, was fantastic. Not so much in actual sound, though it was great, but in the sense of size and power it represented over such a great distance.

“My God!” shouted Pete. “It worked! That God-damn, idiotic, torpedo stunt
worked
!” An enormous, rising, thunderous cheer built throughout the city. “
It worked!
” screamed Pete again as he turned back to look at the stunned sea of Grik. If there was any chance Bradford was right, now was the time to find out. “
Push them!
” he bellowed. “Push them back! Up and at ’em!” He holstered his pistol and unslung his Springfield. “The army will
advance
!”

Walker
staggered under the force of the mighty blast, and the rest of the glass in the pilothouse streamed inward like shattered ice. Kutas cried out, reflexively raising his hands to his face. Matt lunged for the wheel. “Chief!” he shouted. “Get this man below!” He spun the wheel hard to port, preventing the completion of
Walker
’s suicidal dash to ram
Amagi
herself. The ship responded sluggishly, and once again it seemed like her speed was dropping off. He was grateful for the reprieve
Mahan
had given them, but horrified by her sacrifice as well. In a hidden corner of his soul, he might have even felt a little cheated. A wave of irrational anger swept over him, and he lashed out at Reynolds.

“I want a report from Spanky
now
!” he shouted.

“I’m
trying
, Skipper!” The young seaman looked close to tears. “I can’t get through! I can’t get
anything
!”

“I’ll find out, Captain!” Gray shouted back, as he helped the blinded, moaning helmsman down the ladder. Matt looked back at
Amagi
. A giant towering mushroom of fire and smoke was still rising and expanding into the dark, hazy sky. At the base of that pyre would be
Mahan
’s shattered remains.

“My God.”

He was thankful he couldn’t see
Mahan
, as
Walker
ranged down
Amagi
’s opposite side. The battle cruiser was beginning to list heavily to port, and a wide strip of red bottom paint was rising into the light of the burning city. They’d make sure, Matt grimly determined, although he couldn’t imagine anyone on
Mahan
having survived. A dreadful, heavy sadness descended upon him when he remembered
Mahan
’s farewell the night before. Jim must have been planning this all along, and never said a word. He continued
Walker
’s slow turn to port, and when Leo Davis appeared and relieved him at the wheel, Matt told him to steer around to the other side of the Japanese ship.

Amagi
was engulfed in flames, from just aft of her funnel where
Mahan
struck, all the way to her number four turret. Japanese sailors scurried madly about her decks, dragging hoses and directing streams of water onto the conflagration. Some were removing covers from her lifeboats. Clearly her crew was concerned with more important matters than the battered, smoldering destroyer describing a wide, decrepit turn off her starboard side. It never even occurred to Matt that she wasn’t finished yet.

Spanky himself staggered onto the bridge, looking even worse than the chief. Most of his hair was gone, and his skin looked purple and angry. His clothes were a uniform dark gray from the soot and oil that stained them. He wiped his face with his hat.