Carnifex

Fosa.'

'Trinidad, here, sir . . .  Agustin, sir.'

'The flagship's been hit but I think we can save her,' Fosa said. 'What we can't do anything about from here are the torpedoes—you see them on sonar?'

'Aye' . . . 'Aye.'

Fosa gulped; this was a hard order to give. 'I need you to try to bait the torpedoes away . . . and if that doesn't work . . . '

No arguments, no questions. 'It's better they hit us than hit the Dos Lindas. Understood. This is Agustin, we'll try' . . . 'Trinidad, Pedraz speaking. I'll give it a shot.'

Unseen, Fosa nodded. 'Good lads,' he said into the microphone. Looking up at the operations board he ordered, 'Warn the Hoogaboom off. Tell them we're under attack. And, air boss, get the planes onto those goddamned speedboats.'

'Hoogaboom acknowledges, sir.'

Santisima Trinidad

'Nav, give me a plot for the torpedo on our side, an intercept plot.'

'You're shitting me, right, Chief?'

'Just give me the fucking intercept, Dorado,' Pedraz said to the navigator.

'Be a minute,' Dorado answered.

'You've got fifteen seconds, Pedro, I want to pass about four hundred meters in front of the thing.'

It didn't even take fifteen seconds. In half that time Dorado came back, answering, 'Fuck . . . can't do it, Chief. We're not fast enough.'

Pedraz picked up the radio microphone and, keying it, said, 'Dos Lindas, this is Trinidad. No chance to intercept on our side. Sorry.'

BdL Dos Lindas

'Captain, Agustin reports that they've caught the torpedo's attention and it's following them. They can stay ahead of it and lead it off. Trinidad says we're fucked. Impact, astern . . . two minutes.'

'Hard a-port and then kill the AZIPODs.'

The entire bridge crew turned and looked at Fosa as if he were mad.

'Hard a-port and then all, STOP, goddamit. Do it . . . then kill the fucking drives!'

* * *

The torpedo noted the instant drop off in screw noise. It might, had it been a less sophisticated torpedo, have then been fooled by the countermeasures the target deployed. It was, however, 'competent' and, as such, had already eliminated the false noises from consideration. It had, further, tracked the speed of the carrier and was able, in general terms, to account for the continuing forward momentum of the target even if it lost its acoustic aiming point. A few degrees more steer and the torpedo continued on its merry way, aimed almost perfectly for the port side AZIPOD. Indeed, it would have been perfect, but that the ship was ever so slowly turning head on to the speeding torpedo.

* * *

For a nonagenarian, Kurita was fast on his feet. Perhaps it was that, unlike most human beings, there was just no mechanism in him to give in to frailty or pain. Whichever the case, he was down on third deck, as close as he could get to the fire, within moments of leaving the bridge.

Many men, burned, broken, and bleeding, sat quietly against bulkheads or crawled from the consuming flames. Others, caught in the blaze, screamed like children. Of the former, Kurita thought, Brave boys. I am so proud of you. Of the latter, generously he thought, In extremity even a samurai might scream. And death by fire is extreme.

A fire-suited damage control party from another section of the ship arrived, just as Kurita did, its centurion reporting to the Yamatan.

'There is not enough room for all your people here, Centurion,' Kurita said. 'Use half to fight the fire. Have the other half carry off the wounded to clear the way.'

The smoke wasn't bad, yet, but it was bad enough. Coughing, Kurita grabbed a SCBA, a Self Contained Breathing Apparatus mask, from a dispenser and put it on. It would interfere with giving commands, but continued inhalation of the smoke was likely to make him far too dead to give commands.

The problem, though, is that it is hard to tell how much of this smoke is from fire and how much from the initial explosion. Are the fuel lines breached? We have power. Is the air circulation system feeding oxygen to the flames? Has the fire breached the hangar deck fire curtains to either side of the rear elevator?

The only way to determine the answers was to look. Kurita lightly felt the near surface of a hatch that led to a balcony overlooking the hangar deck. Not too bad. I wish the design had included a window. I must advise this to Fosa-san as soon as possible.

He opened the hatch and stuck his head out. His first thought was Thank God the curtain was not breached. Further inspection, however, showed that it was breached higher up. Thus, while no burning fuel was racing across the deck, hot smoke was oozing over and through the rent in the fire curtain's fabric. This was bad enough but what his eyes lit on next was actually enough to set his heart to racing.

Kurita lifted his mask and shouted, 'Centurion, have your men stop work on the wounded! There is ordnance on the hangar deck and it MUST BE REMOVED!'

Then the deck lurched, knocking Kurita once again from his feet and slamming his head against a bulkhead. For a few moments he lost consciousness.

* * *

While the upward lurch of the deck threw Kurita from his feet, at the bridge the motion was much less. Fosa retained his footing, as did almost every man of the bridge crew. What he saw, though, when he looked at the engineering panel—a sudden Christmas tree of red and amber lights—made his heart sink.

Dead in the water. Shit . . . DEAD . . . in the water.

Fosa looked forward and saw that, thank God for small blessings, the Dos Lindas was at least not headed to land. It should, he crudely calculated, have lost all forward motion before there was a risk of grounding.

And when the corvettes get here, they can tow us a bit. Maybe it's not hopeless.

Fosa looked portward and saw a Finch diving on something he couldn't see for the flight deck. The Finch had all guns blazing. He saw it cease fire and pull up just before yet another massive explosion took place off the port side.

Indeed, maybe it's not hopeless.

MV Hoogaboom

Somewhere, deep in his heart, in a place he probably never would have admitted existed, the captain had hoped that the combination of torpedoes, suicide boats, and cruise missiles would destroy the enemy ship before he had to destroy himself and his own ship.

Yet reports broadcast from observers ashore were clear. The ship was aflame at one quarter, it had been hit at least twice, it was stopped dead in the water, drifting but powerless. But it was not sinking, nor even listing, and its combination of light cannon, lasers, machine guns and aircraft were making short work of the suicide boats that, again, deep at heart, the captain had half expected to hull the carrier.

One good bit of news, for certain values of good, was that the enemy ship was slowly turning to present its side to the Hoogaboom.

At least we will be certain to succeed, attacking at this angle with a helpless target. If self immolation is difficult, and it is, the captain thought, how much more difficult to do so without the certainty of success?

'All ahead full,' he ordered. 'Auxiliary crews to the patrol boats. Lower the patrol boats as they're manned. And commend your souls to Allah.'

As the captain gave the order, the Tauran slave girls, gifts of Abdul Aziz and Mustafa, began to scream and cry. No sense in keeping their little hearts in fear, the captain thought.