There was a brief pause. “I… think so. She’s bigger than the tin can-not a lot bigger. She ain’t no fleet oiler, but she’s slow.”
“Very well. Target the tanker with every gun that will bear!”
“Aye, aye, Skipper-but what about the can? She’s really pourin’ on the coal now!”
“The tanker, Sonny!”
“Aye, Captain.”
Matt handed the headset back to Minnie.
“Why the tanker, Skipper?” Spanky asked. “We get the can, we’ll have the tanker on a plate.”
“Something I guess I have to try,” Matt said. “There’ll be a smaller crew on the tanker, and maybe not all those men are murderers.” He shrugged. “Let’s just say I owe General Shinya one.”
“One what?”
“A chance we never really gave the ordinary seamen on Amagi, Spanky: a chance to do the right thing.” An ironic smile appeared on his face. “Those’re Japs over there, Mr. McFarlane, but you do realize that’s not why we’ve been chasing them, don’t you? That’s all over-or it should be for us. We’re here because they’re murderers with a very deadly weapon and they have to be stopped. I’m going to give them an option, a single chance; then I mean to start taking all the options they think they have away!” He smiled fondly at his friend. “Now take your station aft, at the auxiliary conn. I have the deck and the conn.”
“Aye, aye, sir. I stand relieved. The captain has the deck and the conn!” Spanky announced, and with a quick, curious nod at Matt, he bolted aft, down the ladder.
Matt went to the heavy Bakelite telephone mounted on the aft bulkhead that connected the bridge to the comm shack. “Mr. Palmer, this is the captain speaking. I want you to send a voice-radio message. Start with the frequency Okada used to contact the Japanese ships. Message contents: This is the cruiser USS Walker.” (Matt knew the Japanese had often mistaken the very similar silhouettes of four-stack destroyers with the bigger four- stack light cruisers like the old Marblehead. Maybe that would help.) “Our old war does not exist here, and this ship is no longer at war with the Empire of Japan. Yours is a criminal ship, however, with criminal officers who murdered helpless prisoners of war and civilian… natives. That’s not war on any world. You have become pirates, and your leaders must be held accountable for their crimes. Surrender your ships now and you’ll get a fair trial. Those of you innocent of the crimes I described will be honorably treated and allowed to emigrate to a land governed by honorable Japanese! Refuse, and you’ll be destroyed. This offer will not be repeated, nor are the terms negotiable. You have one minute to reply.”
The seconds ticked by, the only sounds from the straining ship and the sea.
“Lookout reports Jaap destroyer open fire!” Minnie cried.
“That’s the option I kind of figured they’d take,” Matt said resignedly. “Time to show them they don’t have any.”
“Twin waterspouts, four hundred tai- yards off port bow!” Minnie reported. They were invisible from the pilothouse.
Matt looked at Sandra. She’d eased away from him, toward the chart table, as if trying to remain unnoticed. “Your station is in the wardroom, I believe,” he said gently. She slashed a nod, but took a step closer.
“We’ll lick them, won’t we?” she asked. She couldn’t help it.
Matt nodded confidently. “They’re newer, bigger, quicker, and their guns are heavier, but we can put just as much iron on target.” The bridge watch growled agreement. “Besides”-he grinned and patted his chair-“we’re the good guys, and we’ve got Walker. We can’t lose.”
Sandra smiled, but the expression was brittle. “Be… careful,” she mouthed, but visibly cursed herself. There I go again, she thought. What a stupid thing to say! She firmed up. “So long, Captain Reddy. I’ll see you after the fight!” Without another word, she left the bridge.
“Hoist the battle flag,” Matt ordered. “All ahead full! Come right ten degrees! Have Mr. Palmer transmit to all stations that we are engaging the enemy at thirteen twenty-one hours. Mr. Kutas, provide him with our current position, if you please.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Norm replied.
Matt looked through the water-smeared windows. He thought he could just see a small, dark, blurry shape far away on the heaving sea. “Inform Mr. Campeti to commence firing the main battery-at the tanker!”
Spanky was soaking wet, but he had to admit he had an amazing view. The ship had never gone into action, nor had he been on the auxiliary conn atop the aft deckhouse with the sea running quite this high. Everything was moving, and he could see it all. The sea was roiling, shifting, every second, and a light rain swirled in all directions, whipped and tattered by the wind. Helmeted heads bobbed and moved all over the ship, in the gun tubs of the twenty-fives, along the deck below as Jeek’s division prepped the Nancy to go over the side, and up on the amidships gun platform. Some of the helmets were gray and others polished bronze, but they all had the same distinctive doughboy shape. The slightest wisps of smoke darted from the tops of three funnels and almost instantly vanished. Farther forward, he saw the large battle flag, a replica of the ruined flag that flew over Walker at the Battle of Baalkpan, with her major actions embroidered on the stripes, lurch up the foremast halyard and stand out to leeward.
The greatest motion of all seemed to come from Walker herself, though Spanky knew that was an illusion. He was almost as far aft on the old ship as you could get, and the stern swooped up and down like an elevator gone amok as she pitched. Sometimes the stern rose so high that the screws flailed at the sea and then dropped so low he thought the waves would swallow him up. Even on the upswing, he never personally saw the target, and again he was struck by the miracle of modern naval gunnery. He knew as much about the mechanical fire-control computer as Campeti did-it was just a complicated machine, after all. Sonny was better with ballistics and trajectories and all the math and stuff, but intellectually Spanky understood how the gun director would be nearly as efficient now as when the sea was at rest. In his gut, however, he couldn’t imagine how they could even hit the sea on purpose right now.
The worst illusion-he hoped it was one-was the way the hull itself seemed to twist and squirm in the foam that gushed alongside. He knew Walker was working hard, but she couldn’t be doing all that. Could she? He looked to his right. Chief Quartermaster Paddy Rosen had joined him; Norm was on the bridge. Norman Kutas might be first lieutenant now, but he’d been at Walker ’s helm through almost every fight. That’s where he belonged. Back here, Spanky had a good backup crew. Walker ’s bench got deeper all the time, but he, Paddy, and several ’Cats were just hanging around (and hanging on) for now. He took the sodden tobacco pouch from his pocket and crammed a handful of the yellowish leaves in his mouth, then tried to look confident-and hoped to God they wouldn’t be needed to conn the ship. The brand-new Nancy splashed into the sea alongside, landing awkwardly, upside down. The starboard propeller guard brushed it aside, and it swirled away aft. A single waterspout suddenly jetted skyward a good distance to port.
“You guys better move!” cried Pack Rat. The Lemurian gunner’s mate was gun captain on number four, right behind the aft conn, and the muzzle of the Japanese 4.7-incher was cranked around almost even with the signals station on the forward port side of the platform. The gun was near the maximum elevation of Walker ’s other guns, but the muzzle blast would be intense.
“Let’s go!” Spanky ordered his companions, and they hurried starboard aft.
“Pointers matched! On target!” Pack Rat shouted to his talker.
“Fire!” the talker yelled back. The ’Cat on the left seat stabbed down on the foot trigger, and nothing happened at once. Then, for an instant, Walker was level enough for the gyro to complete the firing circuit, and guns one, two, and four roared.
“Up two hundred, right ten degrees!” Sonny Campeti shouted. The new tracers were more orange than red, but he could see them-two had actually passed uncomfortably close to his left-and they converged beautifully. He’d even seen the reasonably tight group of splashes through his binoculars. The rain was tapering off, but Walker still didn’t have a range finder. Her old one had been a piece of junk before it was shot to pieces, and nothing had been built to replace it. Campeti was very good at estimating ranges, however, almost as good at Greg Garrett. That kid’s an artist, Campeti thought. “Match pointers!” he yelled.
Three salvos had arced away toward the distant tanker when Palmer rang the bridge. “Captain speaking,”
