ship of the line vanished amid an expanding cloud of smoke and a blizzard of splinters and larger fragments.
“New target! Range…”
Matt quit listening. Campeti was good-maybe as good as Greg Garrett. He concentrated on conning his ship through the tumult ahead. Mertz was closing on Tindal now, starboard guns flailing the port bow of the liner Tindal embraced, smoke streaming from her perforated stack in half a dozen places. The liner spat back, chopping further at Mertz ’s mangled rigging, but most of the shot flew aft of the target and battered a wallowing, dismasted hulk beyond her. Soon, Mertz would add her boarders to Tindal ’s and they’d have a chance to turn the tables on the Doms. For just a moment, Matt glanced at Tabasco, standing out of the way beside the chart table. The ’Cat steward had brought his pistol belt to the bridge, with his Academy sword hanging from it. No, he decided. Much as he’d have liked to, joining a boarding action wasn’t Walker ’s job. Not his job. Not this time. For now, he had to be content with destroying as many Dom ships as he could, and a stationary Walker was bound to attract too much fire-and far too many holes. No one aboard his ship had anything to prove, and Walker was much safer and far more effective underway. His decision was punctuated by a series of hammer blows pounding the port flank of his ship, and he rushed to the bridgewing, followed by Bradford. A ship of the line had suddenly turned and presented them with a full broadside.
“Get that son of a bitch!” he roared up at Campeti.
“Surface action port!” Campeti bellowed in reply. “Guns two and four engage that battlewagon at zero three five in local control! Range, uh… eight hundred! Commence firing! Portside twenty-fives assist!” He paused for only an instant. “Guns one and three maintain fire control connection! Target bearing one eight five! Range two thousand! Match pointers!”
“Make your course zero, four, zero!” Matt shouted as soon as the salvo buzzer rang and the gun on the fo’c’sle boomed and bucked.
“Sero, four, sero, ay!”
“Damage control reports one shot penetrated aa-midships deckhouse, an’ one punch through guinea pullman,” Minnie shouted in her high-pitched voice. “Two spring plates in aft engine room! They prob’ly skate in. Casualties to waard-room!”
Matt looked at Bradford, who’d been uncharacteristically quiet since they “bug-sprayed” the Grik birds, and sighed. “You have work, Courtney.”
Bradford nodded. “Indeed. As do you.” He waved about. The numbers two and four guns opened fire, as did the port twenty-fives.
“Yeah. We won’t board anbody, but it looks like we’re back in the pool with the flashies again, fighting both sides. No choice. I’ll do my best to spoil their aim.”
“God bless you for that, Captain Reddy,” Courtney murmured, and vanished down the ladder aft.
“Lotta iron flyin’ around amongst all that, Skipper,” Norman Kutas said matter-of-factly, nodding ahead toward the densest concentration of enemy ships. Achilles and Hector were in it now, smoke gushing from their guns.
“Yeah, and we’re bound to catch some,” Matt agreed solemnly; then his lips quirked into a grin. “You’re not worried about something spoiling your boyish looks, are you, Norm?”
The badly-and often-scarred First Lieutenant chuckled. “No, sir. I’m way beyond that, but I feel everything that hits this old ship in my bones.”
“Me too, Norm,” Matt agreed. “So let’s do our best to avoid as many hits as possible.”
“Fancy footwork ain’t gonna save us from everything, Skipper.”
“No, but right now good people are dying, and the enemy’s in disarray. We’ll race through, shooting up whatever we can while avoiding as much return fire as we can manage.”
“Then what?”
Matt shrugged. “We turn around and do it again until our friends are safe and every Dom out there is on the bottom of the sea.”
CHAPTER 22
Above Ceylon January 17, 1944
Tikker scratched his ear around the highly polished 7.7-mm cartridge case thrust through a hole a similar cartridge once shot through it. Sometimes it itched, and he’d begun to associate that with a superstitious foreboding. He looked around. Everything seemed fine, and it had been a swell day for killing Grik. The “Nancy’s” engine rumbled healthily above and behind, and they hadn’t been hit by any Grik “shot-mortars” when they bombed the hell out of a retreating column earlier in the flight. It was windy, and the plane bounced around a lot, and the sea to the west showed white teeth, but they should be able to set down safely in Salissa ’s lee. All in all, it was a glorious day, and he didn’t know why his ear was bugging him. A shout from aft shattered his sense of well- being.
“How come you don’t go down and let me shoot more Grik?” Cap- tain Risa-Sab-At, commander of Salissa’s Marine contingent, demanded sharply.
“I don’t see any more,” Tikker snapped. “They’ve had enough. They abandon Saa-lon!” He pointed down, behind them, where Haakar-Faask, Naga, Bowles, Felts, Saak-Fas, and Clark were spraying grapeshot across the rocky, mushy land bridge to India proper, gnashing the remnants of the Grik host trying to cross in daylight with the ebbing tide. The Allied armies were rapidly advancing to chop up what remained of the enemy on Ceylon, and those stranded by the tide would likely be annihilated.
“Then let’s go kill some of those trying to cross the sand!” she demanded.
“Right! We’d probably be hit by our own ships, if we go low enough for you to shoot them with that musket! Besides, we’re low on fuel!” Tikker was growing beyond annoyed. Risa had been cooped up on Salissa throughout the campaign, and she’d begged hm to take her on this patrol. He’d reluctantly agreed when Admiral Keje just as reluctantly gave his blessing. They both knew how anxious she was to get in the fighting, any fighting, particularly after hearing of her brother Chack’s-and Dennis Silva’s-latest… adventures on New Ireland. She’d spent the flight taking potshots at Grik during their bombing runs. At first, the shots surprised and alarmed him. Then they became annoying. He’d told her that if she flew with him, she had to perform all the duties of his spotter/wireless operator, and she’d readily agreed. Once in the air, however, she’d “spotted” all right, trying to get him to dive in on every lost Grik they saw, and he’d quickly determined she barely knew Morse. Except for the column they’d chopped up, it had been a wasted patrol. He hoped the other three ships in his flight had made better observations.
“So,” he said, trying to make conversation and lighten the tension he felt. Risa was a “dish” after all, as the Amer-i-cans would say, and, despite his present aggravation, he actually kind of liked her. There were those pesky rumors about her being “mated” to Silva, and he didn’t know what to think of that. She didn’t seem to be pining for the big chief gunner’s mate, however, and he wondered if he had a chance. He never would have before the war, but now? To say things had changed was a vast understatement. She was just so damn intense sometimes! “What are you going to do? Did you really put in for a transfer?”
“Yes,” she shouted back through the voice tube. “To a line regiment. I want to stay on this front and kill Grik, of course, but I’ll go east if I must.”
Where Silva is, Tikker thought glumly. “There is Salissa!” he said, pointing west-southwest. The mighty ship was anchored a few miles offshore, with Humfra Dar a thousand tails beyond her. Both massive “carriers” were screened by a squadron of “DD” frigates under the command of Jim Ellis. It was a heady sight that banished his gloom. Never had so much combat power been assembled in one place, and soon Arracca and her battle group would arrive. Tikker grinned and turned toward the ships and began his descent.
“Must we return?” Risa asked. “This has been… fun.”
Tikker grinned and was glad Risa couldn’t see his embarrassed blinking.
“Yes, fun,” he admitted. “To a degree.”
Once they reached her, he circled Salissa while his squadron mates set down in the water between her and the shore and were recovered. It would still be bumpy there, but the winds were largely blocked by the bulk of the massive ship. Finally, it was Tikker’s turn. He lined up on the calmer water, fighting the crosswind that would buffet them until they neared the sea, and reduced power. Down they swooped, and he heard Risa shout with glee. Just
