muzzle-loading cannon, and big ones too-they’re still limited to a couple of thousand yards, tops. Besides, neither of them will be ready for sea sooner than three months from now. That’s too long.”
“So you’re going to do it,” Sandra stated. It wasn’t a question.
“No choice. I wish we’d been close enough to do it when we first heard about her, but all our major ports and strategic outposts are well enough armed to protect themselves, and besides, we had other priorities.” He shrugged. “And I thought Okada would handle her.” He was silent for a moment, and everyone saw the thoughts colliding behind his eyes.
“Hell!” he said suddenly. “I hate it how things sneak up on me! I just realized that she represents another, more pressing threat I hadn’t even thought of before. She had an oiler in tow when she came through her squall-or whatever it was-so we’ve been thinking she’d just hole up. But what if the oiler wasn’t full? What if she’s starting to run low on fuel, or what’ll she do when she does? The longer she’s on the loose, the sooner that’ll happen. If she’s based where we think she is, she can’t even drill for oil like we did because there isn’t any there. She can’t take it from any of our facilities or set up shop nearby without us knowing it… and she can’t even know everywhere we are!”
Matt’s face turned even grimmer as he looked around the table. He saw Chack blinking furiously in thought.
“That means this bad Jaap will have only one other way to sustain himself, at least in the short term,” Chack murmured, his tail swishing behind him.
“Right,” said the Bosun thoughtfully. “She’ll have to go after our ships like a g-dad-blasted pirate! Take oil from the steamers, probably the food and supplies from other ships in the pipeline, headed either way. She might already be doing it!”
“That Jap tin can’s a major threat to our shipping lanes, all around the Fil-pin lands, at least,” Matt confirmed. “With her range advantage and speed, she might as well be the Graf Spee!”
“And us without the old Exeter to chase her down,” Gray agreed, oblivious that most of those present had no idea what he was talking about. He remembered when he and his captain had watched the Japanese sink the famous British cruiser, almost effortlessly.
“Yeah…” Matt’s sigh was almost a groan. “This Hidoiame can cripple our overall war effort, on both fronts, whether she’s become Kurokawa’s stooge or not.” He paused. “Lieutenant Raada-Nin, would you mind taking Chief Gunner’s Mate Stites out to look at these new shells?”
“Of course not, Cap-i-taan Reddy.”
“Good. Silva, go with ’em. Pick up Campeti on the way. We’ll have to test them, obviously, and recalibrate the gun director, but I want to know what all of you think immediately. Ask Spanky and Tabby to join us up here as well.” He looked around the table, his gaze fastening on Governor Radcliff. “I don’t mean to impose, sir. If you’d rather I go back to my ship…”
“Absolutely not! No imposition at all. Battles are complex things, I’m told, and though I’ve no notion how to fight one, perhaps I can learn a bit about preparing for one, at least.”
“Thank you, sir,” Matt said sincerely. “And if you or your officers have any questions-or suggestions-I’d love to hear them.” He looked at Sandra then and saw her desolate expression. He’d called her bluff and she’d backed down, as he knew she would. He actually agreed with many of her arguments… and maybe his judgment was affected? He was tired; everyone was, and they’d desperately needed this… respite. He could also tell that she knew he was right as well, however. Particularly as the new threat sank in. She never would have retreated otherwise. Not for the first time, the two absolute necessities they advocated were irreconcilable. But this time, for the first time, he was afraid it might tear them apart. He longed to hold her, reassure her, and wished they could take some time alone. Maybe later, if she’d allow it. For now, he had to plan. So did Sandra, it seemed, because Emelia Radcliff suddenly rose and tugged her by the hand.
“You men may draft your war,” she said a little harshly. “Lady Sandra and I will try to salvage her wedding-if it is still to occur at all.” She stared hard at Matt, and though he could tell she was angry, he was surprised to get the impression she wasn’t only mad at him. Sandra wouldn’t-couldn’t, he thought-meet his gaze. “I presume you won’t be steaming away again at first light, Captain Reddy?”
“No, ma’am,” Matt replied quietly. “We couldn’t if I wanted to. We’ll have to remain here several days, at least.”
“Gomez!” Governor Radcliff suddenly called. “You may clear away the debris of our meal now. And do bring brandy, if you please!”
CHAPTER 6
Respite Island
March 2, 1944
Shockingly well-crafted, almost furniture-grade wooden crates of dazzlingly polished (four each) four-inch-fifty shells came aboard in the early-morning light and were shifted to the magazines fore and aft. Campeti crouched beside one such crate, the lead-painted lid prized off, shuffling thoughtfully through a sheaf of pages. Stites was poking around in the cluster of carefully swaddled, white-painted Baalkpan bamboo tubes protecting the ammunition, and Silva sat on the deck with one of the heavy, gleaming, fixed cartridges on his lap, fingering the waxed-paper seal at the nose of the projectile where the similarly carefully shipped fuses would be inserted. They were surrounded by nearly the entire ordnance division, as well as many onlookers.
“Looks like a sculpterin!” Silva said, beaming. “And we don’t even have to put ’em together.”
“Prob’ly don’t trust us to,” commented Stites.
“Yeah, this reads like a novel,” Campeti agreed, waving the spec sheets. “It looks like ol’ Bernie’s done us proud, though. Get a load o’ this! He’s detailed everything they put into these beauties. There’s bagged-he calls it ‘Explosive B,’ for ‘Baalkpan,’ or maybe ‘Bernie’!-charges in the shells on top of a priming charge.” He chuckled belatedly. “Bernie bullets! Anyway, he swears they’ll fly like they’re supposed to. Now I can scrape my paint markers off the gun-director dials!”
“Quit screwin’ around with that ammunition out here,” Gray roared, suddenly surging through the gaggle with Bashear in tow. He stopped and saluted when he noticed Campeti for the first time. “Sorry, Mr. Campeti. We didn’t know it was you playin’ with dangerous explosives on our deck.”
“Don’t apologize, SB!” Campeti said sheepishly. It hadn’t been that long since he’d been a chief, and the Super Bosun’s word was still law as far as he was concerned. “It’s my fault. I just couldn’t wait to see what was under the Christmas tree.” He turned to the others. “You heard the man. Silva, put that thing back in the tube and secure the crate. You other guys, get the rest of this stuff stowed away. Stites, get a count on what we have to offload to make room for all this. I know it’s weird having too much ammunition for a change, but we just have to cope.”
The ordnance strikers snatched crates and took off, blinking rapidly, and the onlookers scattered before Gray or Bashear could think of more duties-like chipping paint-to keep them properly occupied. A strange sound froze them in their tracks, however, and most stared up at the sky, shading their eyes. With excited shouts and chittering, they began pointing into the air, and many crowded toward the starboard safety chains to gawk. Wordlessly, Gray and Bashear joined Campeti as he followed suit. Soon, most of Walker ’s crew was lining her starboard rail, watching with the awkward amazement of children allowed through the tent flap of the traveling freak show for the very first time, while two lumbering behemoths passed overhead and began a banking descent toward the bay.
The aircraft were obviously the promised “Manila Clippers,” and they were… quite a sight. They were the first real departure from the initial aircraft designs the Alliance had put in production. Nancys had a single, central- mounted “pusher” engine, while the bigger “Buzzards” had been built along the same lines, with an extra pair of outboard engines. But the “Clippers,” or PB-5s, had four larger, more powerful versions of the Wright Gipsy-type power plant that had become so ubiquitous, mounted atop a much bigger, broader wing attached to the top of a deeper, longer fuselage with an enclosed cockpit. Instead of wingtip floats, there were bulbous, aerodynamic protrusions on each side of the fuselage to provide stability in the water.
Even Captain Reddy was not immune to the excitement, and he stepped out on the starboard bridgewing
