Distant Thunders d-4 Read online

  Distant Thunders

  ( Destroyermen - 4 )

  Taylor Anderson

  Distant Thunders

  Taylor Anderson

  “Weapons more violent, when next we meet.”

  - Paradise Lost

  PROLOGUE

  March 1, 1942

  This was NAP 1/c Nataka’s last chance. Admiral Nagumo, commanding the First Air Fleet, had ordered Nataka’s carrier, Kaga, home for repairs. She’d scraped her bottom in the Palau Strait and developed an annoying leak. Now she’d have to leave the war right when things were going so well. Nataka was seriously concerned the war might even be over before she-and, by extension, he-managed to get back in the fight.

  He’d already seen a lot of “action” and sometimes felt as if he’d been in the cockpit of his beloved kanbaku ever since the beginning of this “new” war against the Americans, British, and Dutch. In all that time however, during all the sorties he’d flown, he hadn’t managed to hit anything with one of his 250kg bombs! He’d missed the glorious attack on Pearl Harbor; he’d been too sick to hide something that gave him a raging fever and they hadn’t let him go. He’d flown many missions since, but now heroes, immortals, surrounded him. They’d been his comrades, his peers just a few months before, but they’d accomplished the impossible while he lay sweating in his rack. Somehow, he just hadn’t been able to catch up.

  Many times now, Nataka had dived with the others in his Navy Type 99 against lonely freighters, destroyers, and even a pair of cruisers. He’d tried to do as he’d been taught, fearlessly braving the black clouds of antiaircraft shells and tracers that rose to meet him. He’d bored in relentlessly at exactly sixty-five degrees and released his bomb at exactly the proper instant-and somehow, he always missed. He’d even missed at Port Darwin! Granted, he hadn’t gone after a stationary anchored target; he’d attacked a wildly maneuvering, desperately firing destroyer, but his bomb hadn’t even come close! Someone must have finally hit the norou old American destroyer; he’d seen it afire and dead in the water when his flight regrouped after the attack, but his dive-bomber must have been the only one to return to Kaga that hadn’t hit something! Even NAP 1/c Honjo, his navigator-gunner, seemed to be losing faith. The two were close-they had to be-but something just wasn’t working.

  Nataka was a good attack pilot; he knew he was. He’d always scored among the very best in practice. Of course, practice targets didn’t twist, turn, and lunge ahead at flank speed, churning the sea with their deceptive wakes. They didn’t make radical, seemingly impossible turns and belch black smoke at the worst possible moment to spoil his aim. He had to remind himself that there were men on his targets now: men who controlled their movements with complete unpredictability. Men who didn’t want to die. Now, unless this final “hunting trip” he and Lieutenant Usa had been allowed bore fruit, Kaga would steam for Japan before Nataka had a chance to prove himself, before he had a chance to break this terrible curse that seemed to hold him in its grasp!

  “There is something building in the east!” Honjo said in his earphones.

  Nataka glanced left, beyond the gray-green wing, where a squall line was beginning to form. There were always squalls in these strange seas and sometimes they were intense. They didn’t usually form this early in the day, however. “Lieutenant Usa has already seen it,” he replied, watching Usa’s plane bank left, away from the distant coast they’d been approaching so brazenly. Type 99s were slow and fat; easy prey for any good fighter, even if they were surprisingly agile. Regardless, Nataka wasn’t concerned. There were no good enemy fighters in the area. As far as he knew, there were no enemy fighters left at all. Without hesitation, Nataka turned his plane to follow his lieutenant’s.

  “Maybe a big tanker or some poor, lonely freighter is trying to hide in that squall,” Honjo speculated predatorily. Nataka nodded. It was certainly possible. The frequent squalls were the only protection left for those desperate ships fleeing Java. “I just hope, if there is, Lieutenant Usa won’t report it,” Honjo continued. “Those greedy bakano in Second Fleet will want us to lead them to it so they can blast it with their battleships, even if it’s a rowboat!”

  Nataka nodded again. There’d been a lot of that. Slowly, he eased his plane closer to Usa’s and they approached the squall together. Was it just his imagination, or did the rain already seem closer than it should? They were flying three hundred and fifty kilometers per hour, but either the thing was growing much more quickly than any squall he’d seen, or it was moving toward them in an unprecedented fashion. It was also growing darker, and wasn’t the usual purple-gray that one usually observed, but rather… greenish… and livid with dull pulses of lightning. Strange.

  “Nataka!” came Usa’s clipped, terse voice in his ears. “A ship! Two o’clock, low!”

  Nataka suppressed an exasperated sigh. Of course it was low if it was a ship! He strained to see over the black-painted cowling of his engine. Yes! All alone on the brilliant purple sea, a lone freighter plodded helplessly along. She looked old, medium-size, with a single stack streaming gray smoke. Perhaps she’d seen them, because she was clearly making for the growing squall.

  “We will attack together,” Usa said over the radio. “It seems to be the easiest way,” he added, almost apologetically, it seemed.

  Nataka’s face heated, but he made no reply.

  “I will approach her port bow,” Usa continued. “You will attack from the port quarter. Whichever direction she turns, one of us should have her entire length for his bomb to fall upon!”

  “It will be done!” Nataka said, and banked left again, directly toward the squall. “Beloved ancestors!” he muttered, and immediately wondered if anyone heard. If they had, they probably thought he was calling his ancestors to aid him in the attack, but what prompted his words was the squall itself. The thing was monstrous! Not only had it swiftly grown to encompass the visible horizon, but it was practically opaque, not like a squall at all, but like a huge wall of water! He shook himself and glanced at his altimeter. Soon he would begin his dive.

  The altimeter had gone insane! The needle spun erratically with wild fluctuations! Not only that, but his compass was distressed as well. As he banked back right, to the north, his compass told him he was flying east! Even as he veered around behind the still tiny ship below, his compass steadfastly insisted that west was north.

  “Honjo, I…”

  “Yes? What is it?”

  “Nothing. Usa has circled around while we positioned ourselves. He is beginning his dive!”

  “Good luck, Nataka! Let us sink this bastard quickly and get away from that wrongful storm!”

  So, Honjo was nervous too. Nataka couldn’t count on any of his instruments now. Even his horizon and airspeed indicators were malfunctioning. He pushed the stick forward until the ship’s fantail appeared in the telescopic sight in front of his canopy. The target was slow. It couldn’t be making more than ten knots at best. He doubted it was capable of any escape sprint, like those so many of his targets had employed. Nevertheless, he engaged the dive brakes to slow his descent. He wanted plenty of time to react if the ship took evasive maneuvers to avoid Usa’s attack.

  Tracers started rising toward him and a single puff of black smoke erupted in his path. This sheep has a few little teeth, he thought, concentrating on his angle of descent. Apparently, the target had managed a feeble burst of speed after all, and he pulled back on the stick just a bit. More tracers came and they seemed brighter than before. Brighter? He risked a quick glance away from the sight. No. The world was darker! The squall was in the west, he knew it was in the west, but out-riding clouds above must have blocked the morning sun. No time. Usa was nearly upon the target, the gray-green of his pla
ne and the bright red circles on its wings still clearly contrasted against the darker sea. Excellent! The ship was turning toward Usa, just as the lieutenant predicted! Usa might still hit… No! A massive, dirty plume erupted just off the ship’s port bow! Tracers followed Usa’s plane as it pulled up, up… But wait! The plane was smoking!

  Nataka focused once more on the target. Later there would be time to discover the lieutenant’s fate. Hopefully, Usa and his gunner would be all right, but they’d certainly left the ship at Nataka’s mercy! Tracers still reached for him and he felt the plane shiver as a few bullets found their mark. He fired his own 7.7-millimeter guns to disperse the defenders. Another black puff materialized to his right and fragments of steel sleeted into his wing. He heard Honjo yell.

  Soon, he crooned to himself. His angle was perfect; the target couldn’t possibly escape. He had the entire length of the ship from stern to bow for his bomb to strike…!

  That was the thought NAP 1/c Nataka took to his watery grave. Just as his hand caressed the knobbed lever to release the five-hundred-pound bomb, another pathetic, miraculous black puff appeared less than four feet to his left. Hot steel shredded his canopy and tore away most of his head. More sparkling fragments from the three-inch shell slashed the left wing root and ignited the fuel. The wing fluttered away and the remaining, still dutiful wing sent the flaming wreck into a tight roll that edged it, just slightly, toward the port side of the ship.

  With a mighty roar and a blinding flash of flame made even brighter by the dark, eerie squall, the plane and its powerful bomb combined the force of their detonation alongside the old freighter. Technically, Nataka had missed again, but as far as the crew of the SS Santa Catalina was concerned, a torpedo couldn’t have done much worse.

  Santa Catalina ’s captain quickly assessed the situation. His ship was badly damaged. The near miss forward had opened some seams, but that last stroke left the aft hold quickly flooding. Still, they might just make it. Australia was out of the question, but unlike every other remaining Allied ship in the area, his wasn’t bent on escape. The South Java port of Tjilatjap was his destination. Grimly, he ordered as much speed as his old, battered ship could muster; then he stepped out on the bridge wing and stared at the bizarre… malignant… squall crawling up her wake.

  CHAPTER 1

  Late March, 1943

  An oppressive smoky haze from the epic battle and resultant, seemingly endless funeral pyres clung to the savaged city and the wide expanse of Baalkpan Bay. Almost three weeks after the Grik invaders churned themselves to offal against Baalkpan’s defenses, the smoke and sod-Aden smell of wet, burnt wood still lingered like a sad, ethereal shroud. Captain Matthew Reddy, High Chief of the “Amer-i-caan” Clan, and Supreme Commander of all the combined Allied forces, surveyed the somber scene from Donaghey ’s hastily repaired quarterdeck as the battered frigate tacked on light, humid, northerly airs toward the mouth of the bay. The water remained choked with the shattered remains of the Grik fleet, causing a real menace to navigation. Occasionally, Donaghey thumped and shivered when she struck some piece of floating wreckage and it clunked and shuddered down her side as she passed. It was the first time Matt had returned to the water since that terrible night when the Battle of Baalkpan achieved its cataclysmic peak. Much of the flashing intensity and grief he’d felt had slowly begun to ebb, but the brief interval and the dreary day conspired to reinforce his gloomy mood.

  By any objective measure, the battle had resulted in a momentous victory for the Allies, but it came at a terrible cost. The mighty Japanese battle cruiser Amagi had accompanied the Grik host, and her shells had shredded the remaining Lemurian ships in the bay and pounded the carefully prepared fortifications to matchsticks and heaps of earth. Lemurian losses had been horrifying, and both precious, aged American destroyers-survivors of the U.S. Asiatic Fleet that had been swept by a mysterious squall from one war (and world) smack into the middle of another-had ultimately been sunk in the battle. Mahan (DD-102) was a total loss, having virtually disintegrated herself by ramming the Japanese ship with a load of depth charges set to explode. That blow to Amagi had probably been mortal, in retrospect, but she’d still been under way and apparently on the verge of escape. She was finally destroyed by the combination of a lucky, forgotten mine, and the dogged determination of battered Walker (DD- 163) and her crew, who fought to their final shell despite their own damage and casualties.

  USS Walker was more fortunate than her sister. She’d managed to crawl back to the shipyard before succumbing to her grievous wounds, and even now, an effort was under way to refloat her. Amagi lay on the bottom of Baalkpan Bay, broken and gutted by flames, her warped and dreary superstructure protruding from the water as a constant, grim reminder of that terrible day and night.

  Matt himself commanded Donaghey for this brief sortie, and it was a slightly awkward situation. He was familiar with Donaghey ’s historical design, but knew little about actually operating a square-rigged ship. Her assigned captain, Greg Garrett-Matt’s former gunnery officer-had become quite a sailor, but he was still recovering from serious wounds. Russ Chapelle, a former Mahan torpedoman, had learned quite a bit, however. He’d been the ship’s master gunner and was elevated to “salig maa-stir” (sailing master), or executive officer, after Donaghey ’s own Lemurian exec was killed. Garrett would get his old ship back, or a newer one, when he recovered, but for now, Russ was creditably taking up the slack.

  Matt knew Garrett chafed at his inactivity, but his wounds were severe, and Nurse Lieutenant Sandra Tucker insisted he heal completely before exerting himself. All Sandra’s patients were important to her, but Greg was human, and humans were an increasingly rare species. The titanic struggle-seemingly destined to encompass the entire locally known world-had already claimed many of the mere handful of humans actively engaged in aiding what was clearly the side of right. No one knew how many Japanese sailors the Grik had saved from Amagi, but even if the Grik hadn’t eaten them they were, of course, not friends.

  According to the charts they’d captured showing the extent of the enemy holdings, the Grik could replace their losses in a shockingly short time. They bred like rabbits and Courtney Bradford theorized that their young reached mature lethality within three to five years. If the remaining Americans and their allies were to have any chance of survival-not to mention victory-they needed all the skills and experience of every last destroyerman. Their window of opportunity would be fleeting and there weren’t nearly enough hands and minds for all the work that lay ahead. Matt found it ironic that the ragtag remnants of the Asiatic Fleet who’d wound up here-men once considered the dregs of the Navy by some-were now the indispensable core of innovators: the trainers of the native force they’d need to see them through.

  Great work had already been accomplished. They’d begun an industrial revolution of sorts, transforming the nomadic, insular, isolationist Lemurians-people who still reminded many destroyermen of a cross between cats and monkeys-into seasoned professional soldiers and sailors-but those ranks of professionals had been cruelly thinned. Recruitment was constant and Captain Reddy had secured important alliances that would supply the raw material to rebuild their forces, but it would take time to train and equip them, and in spite of their great victory, the war had just begun. The combined human survivors of Walker, Mahan, and S-19 now numbered just over a hundred souls-constituting the known (friendly) human population of this new world-unless somehow, they could befriend the “visitors” who’d appeared that morning beyond the mouth of the bay.

  Matt didn’t know if their visitors could or would help them, but as much as they needed more friends, they certainly didn’t want more enemies. According to Chief Gray, the last meeting between Allied forces and the ships lingering in the strait had been… strained. That was one reason Matt wanted Donaghey for this meeting. She was the only “home-built” U.S. Navy ship yet made seaworthy again and, scarred as she was, she was the only ship available that should be a match for one of
the visitors’ powerful steam frigates. Of Donaghey ’s two sisters, they’d try to salvage Kas-Ra-Ar ’s guns, but the ship was gone forever. Tolson had also very nearly sunk. She’d require much more yard time before she was ready for sea. Several of the massive aircraft carrier-size, seagoing Lemurian Homes had returned after the battle, but impressive as they were, they were too slow to join the delegation. That didn’t mean Donaghey was approaching the mouth of the bay alone.

  Nearly two dozen “prize” ships were taken in serviceable condition after the battle. It would have seemed a great accomplishment, and it was-that they’d been alive to take them. Nevertheless, they’d been the only repairable ships of almost three hundred similar ones-virtual copies of the venerable British East Indiamen their lines were stolen from two centuries before-that had attacked Baalkpan packed with as many as one hundred and fifty thousand Grik warriors. No one would ever know for certain how many there’d actually been. Some of the terrifying, semireptilian Grik had escaped at the end, and many thousands died in the sprawling land battle that had surrounded the city. Far more met their fate in the sea, and the water of the bay had churned for days as the voracious flasher fish fed upon the dead.

  Four of those ships now sailed with Donaghey, quickly armed with a few cannons each, their once red hulls repainted black with a white stripe between their gunports, according to Matt’s new Navy regulations. They’d been cleaned as well as possible and their crews were glad to have them, but they’d never forget who made them. The barbaric nature and practices of their previous owners would taint the ships forever, regardless of how well they were scrubbed.

  Matt leaned on the windward taffrail, still gouged and splintered from battle, and focused his intense green eyes on the squadron of strange ships anchored outside the bay-just beyond the reach of the grim-faced gunners serving the heavy cannon of Fort Atkinson. They did look formidable. All were warships, with three masts and sleek-looking hulls. Large half-moon boxes for their paddle wheels and tall, smoke-streaming funnels marred their pleasing lines, but lent a determined, businesslike aspect to their appearance. Matt was impressed by their sophistication. The Empire hadn’t quite caught up with the “modern world” the destroyermen had lost, but, in some ways at least, it had advanced to within a generation or two.