Iron Gray Sea - 07 Read online

  “Now, if you think you’re going to just show up out of the blue and pull rank, there’s something you better know.” He held his thumb and forefinger about a quarter inch apart. “When we got here, we were that close to coming completely unwrapped, and only two things kept that from happening: the Skipper and the ’Cats. Captain Reddy never gave us a chance to wring our hands and worry and never allowed us to fall apart. He just kept doing his duty and expecting us to do ours . . . and we did. Not because of any oath or for a country we’ll probably never see again, but for each other.” He looked hard at Herring. “And for the skipper.” He lowered his voice. “It never even occurred to anyone until later that maybe we weren’t in the Navy anymore, but by then, it didn’t matter. The skipper was still the skipper, and Walker was the Navy.” He sighed and scratched his nose. “So the Navy’s a lot bigger now, and there aren’t many of us guys from Walker and Mahan and S-19 left, but, by God we did the right thing, the only thing, and Captain Reddy deserves most of the credit.

  “As for the ’Cats, we never would’ve made it without them, and, of course, all the ones here at least would be dead by now if we hadn’t become friends. We’ve been through a hell of a lot together, side by side, so you’ll have to excuse me if I’m sort of fond of the little guys. These ’Cats . . .” He paused and shook his head. “We just like each other. It’s hard to explain. They had their ways and we had ours, but compared to the fix we were all in together, the differences that cause separate drinking fountains back home just never mattered, see? We—us and them—never let it matter much, and when trouble came up over various things, it got squared away fast.” He chuckled. “Eventually, the little differences started going away. You’ve probably noticed how many of our ways most of them have taken on, particularly Navy and Marine ’Cats, and most of us probably seem a little weird to you too. I think, in all the ways that matter, we were a lot alike to start with.”

  He stopped again, and his smile turned downward. “One thing we have in common is that we’ve got ourselves one hell of a war. I’ve seen things . . . done things. . . .” He gestured helplessly at the others. “All of us have . . . . I’m sorry, sir, you just had to be here. This war is downright modern now compared to what it was. We’ve got guns and steamships and airplanes, for crying out loud, but it started with spears! I’ve heard it got pretty old-fashioned against the Japs in the Philippines, so maybe you can imagine a little of what I’m talking about, but this is a real war, a big war, and it’s mean as hell. It’s also for the whole enchilada: we win or die. It’s that simple.”

  “What Commander Letts is getting at, Commander Herring,” Ben Mallory interjected, “is that despite the fact that Captain Reddy’s done his best to uphold the traditions and organization of the Navy here, for a lot of reasons, you really don’t want to make a fuss about your seniority. That can only cause distractions that might cost lives. Right now, you’re not senior to anybody. Captain Reddy might see it different because that’s the kind of guy he is, but you won’t find another soul who thinks this is still your Navy. The U.S. Navy on this world belongs to Captain Reddy.”

  “I see,” Herring replied thoughtfully. “Do you agree with . . . Colonel Mallory’s assessment, Mr. Letts?”

  “I do, and as he said, I think you’ll find the sentiment universal.”

  “What will become of us, then? What if we decide this isn’t our war?” Herring actually chuckled. “If this isn’t my Navy, then its suspension of discharges for the duration can hardly apply.” The growing tension ebbed a notch.

  “That’s true. We’d love to have you—we need you—as long as you’ve got your heads straight about the setup around here. But your old oath doesn’t bind you, not to us. Captain Reddy made that clear when he asked the guys—all the humans in military service—to voluntarily reaffirm their oaths.” Letts eyed Herring closely, then glanced at the others. “Nobody backed out. This is a good cause, Commander. And what else would we do?”

  “Forgive me for asking, but what exactly is your cause . . . besides survival?”

  Alan suddenly realized that wasn’t a bad question.

  “Well . . . it started out as just survival, but it’s way beyond that now. Believe it or not, this isn’t a bad setup. Lots of growing pains, but we’re trying to build a kind of, well, republic, I guess, along the lines of the constitution we all swore to defend. I know it seems weird, and it is weird to the ’Cats. Some of their ‘states’ are those aircraft carrier–size ships.” He shrugged. “I guess if something as small as Rhode Island could be a state back home . . . Anyway, it’s kind of screwy, but in the end I guess we’re fighting for the same things we always have. Freedom, security, the principles we stand for . . . and each other.”

  Herring was silent a long moment. He too was looking at the graves now and the plaques. His companions were watching him, but by their expressions, Letts thought Gunny Horn and the Australian sailor had heard enough.

  “You make a compelling argument, Commander,” Herring said at last. “And yes, you’ve clearly earned your rank. To inspire such loyalty and confidence, your Captain Reddy surely has as well.” He paused again. “I need to think, to get up to speed, but I’m a quick learner. If I decide to join you, to ‘ship over,’ as it were, perhaps you might have need of an officer with intelligence training?”

  “I’ll say!” Letts and Brister chorused.

  Herring looked at his fellows. “I presume we could find civilian employment, but what are the terms of enlistment?”

  “It’s voluntary, but it’s for the duration,” Letts replied. “The ’Cats don’t have many rules, but they’re serious about the ones they have. All military personnel are governed by Rocks and Shoals. We’re still sorting out the pay scales—they didn’t even use money here before—but I think you’ll find the wages sufficient. In your cases, you’d go in with your current ranks or ratings, and we’d put you where we need you most.”

  “Sounds fair,” Herring said softly, looking at his comrades. “Well, men, I hate to break up the gang, but it’s up to you. It is nice to be able to choose our fates for a change.”

  “I have only one question,” Conrad Diebel said, pointing at another pair of P-40s sporting over the bay. “Can I fly one of those?”

  “You’ll have to earn one of those,” Ben answered immediately, “but you’ll fly.”

  “Then I’m in.”

  “How’s the chow?” Gunny Horn asked abruptly.

  “Weird,” Alan confessed, “but good, I guess—and regular.”

  “Hmm. Well, hand over the enlistment papers, Commander Letts. We’ll ship over,” Horn said, speaking for himself and Lance Corporal Miles, while looking at Commander Herring as if for permission. Miles didn’t speak, but he frowned.

  Herring nodded. “Thanks for . . . everything, Gunny.”

  “No thanks necessary, sir.” He looked at Letts. “You’ve got a lot of these ’Cats running around calling themselves Marines. Maybe I could help with their training?”

  “Maybe so, Gunny,” Letts said thoughtfully. “But I think you’ll find they know their business pretty well. I may have another, more independent assignment for you.”

  “I’ll join,” said Leading Seaman Henry Stokes; then he hesitated. “But only if Commander Herring does. Even then, I’d like to stick with him. He might need a hand.”

  “Glad to have you, Stokes,” Herring said, glancing at Alan. “If I join. Like I said, I’ve got some thinking to do. . . . And I believe I will go down and observe those Grik captives you mentioned. Have I your permission to talk to others? In the various industries and military commands as well?”

  “Knock yourself out,” Letts replied. “But don’t take too long making up your mind.” He shrugged. “There’s a war on. When you decide, we need to talk to Chairman Adar. You’ll like him. If he’s not in too big a huff over the way you ran us around, I’m sure he’ll be delighted that we may soon have our own Office of Naval Intelligence. Less work for all of
us, and maybe as a new eye, you’ll spot an opportunity we’ve been too close to the problem to see.” He looked at Stokes. “And you’ll need a staff.”

  CHAPTER 3

  ////// First Fleet

  TF Arracca

  SE Coast of Grik India

  February 24, 1944

  Commodore James Ellis, Walker’s former exec, had a virtual fleet under his command. His task force was built around the reconfigured and recently arrived carrier Arracca, her battle group of four new steam frigates, or “DDs,” and a train of oilers and supply ships. The latter were mostly converted Grik Indiamen taken at Singapore, and more of them arrived every day. In addition, he had another thirteen DDs, including some of the older ones, such as his own Dowden, and almost forty other ships clustered out of range of anything ashore but in full view on the horizon. Those ships were mostly oilers and supply ships, and there were a few of the new destroyer and seaplane tenders. It was hoped that the Grik would think all were troopships.

  Dowden, as flagship, had temporarily joined Arracca’s screen. The thirteen other DDs of Des-Div 4 steamed inshore, just south of the low tide crossing between Ceylon and India, adding their fire to a furious bombardment. Nearly a hundred field pieces already floated on barges parallel to the crossing, pounding Grik positions within the bordering forest on the India side. There was very little answering artillery. It was a stirring sight, as Jim watched through binoculars on Dowden’s quarterdeck. The ships streamed smoke from their guns and stacks and moved slowly with all sails furled and broad American battle flags flowing taut to leeward. To Jim, the sound came as a continuous, rumbling thunder, and dense woods beyond the beach churned with smoke, geysers of earth, blizzards of splinters, and tottering trees. The screams are probably pretty loud too, he thought with grim satisfaction, but they just can’t compete with the rest of the noise and the distance. Something caught his eye and he raised the binoculars higher. A squadron of “Nancys” from Arracca swirled above the enemy, occasionally adding their own bombs to the abattoir below. Other planes flew higher, spotting and scouting and ready to raise the alarm if any Grik zeppelins appeared.

  The thought of the shocking and totally unexpected appearance of enemy dirigibles over First Fleet, Aryaal, and even Baalkpan itself still burned Jim’s soul. In his mind’s eye, he again saw the mighty Lemurian Home–turned aircraft carrier Humfra-Dar erupting like a fiery volcano as bombs fell on her crowded flight deck. There’d been very few survivors of the holocaust that engulfed the great ship. Some had been aloft flying missions and were recovered aboard Keje’s Salissa, or “Big Sal,” (CV-1), but perhaps the only thing that preserved the few awkward swimmers, flailing in the terrifying sea long enough to be rescued, was the stunning underwater acoustics of the terrible explosions.

  The zeppelins had swarmed them in their scores, loosing sophisticated bombs in a density a flight of B-17s might have envied that not only destroyed Humfra-Dar, but also heavily damaged several of her screening DDs. The only consolation was that many of the Grik “air lizards” must have been extreme amateurs at the time, and a large number of their airships made no compensation for the sudden loss of their bomb load and practically rocketed into the sky and were destroyed by structural failure or the catastrophic expansion of their gasbags. The resulting spectacle created a viscerally satisfying, almost grim amusement, but little comfort for their loss. Most of the surviving zeppelins escaped over India to God knew where, although Captain Jis-Tikkar “Tikker,” Commander of Flight Operations (COFO) for the First Naval Air Wing, managed to claw high enough to get a good look at the things and even bring one down.

  Only a few airships attacked Aryaal, and they were repulsed after inflicting only minor damage. The larger raid on Baalkpan was decimated by Ben Mallory’s P-40s. No zeppelin that survived either raid was likely to have had the fuel to return, so their losses had probably been total, but First Fleet had seen groups of the things again, several times, so they must have established bases for fueling and maintenance somewhere in India. Jim frowned. Every time we think we’ve got the damn Grik figured out, they pull something new out of their hat. That crazy Jap Kurokawa is probably behind a lot of it, but not all. Apparently not all the Grik, their Hij, at least, are fools. We KNOW they’re building a new fleet. I hope to God it doesn’t come as big a surprise as their zeppelins did!

  “What’s the dope?” he asked aside as he became aware of Niaal-Ras-Kavaat, his dark-furred exec, standing beside him.

  “The scouts report that the enemy continues to gather, preparing for our assault.” Niaal blinked pleasure and grinned, showing his wicked young canines. “And we continue to kill them!”

  “Good. Hopefully we can keep it up for a while, before they get wise.”

  “Not much chance of that,” Niaal said in a contemptuous tone.

  “Of them catching on? I don’t know,” Jim countered softly. “Pete—I mean, General Alden—thinks the Grik have a new cheese who knows what he’s about. Flynn’s Rangers—shoot, the whole Third Division of Queen Maraan’s Second Corps—ran into something that nearly ate it alive, and it sure gave everybody the creeps.”

  “What did General Lord Rolak’s pet Grik, Hij-Geerki say about it? And weren’t a few prisoners taken at Colombo?”

  “Geeky didn’t know what happened. Said he never heard of such a thing. Of course, he was just a clerk . . . sorta . . . at Rangoon. He was from Ceylon, originally, but hadn’t ever been anywhere else. Besides, we caught him before all this new stuff kicked in.” He paused. “He does seem loyal to Lord Rolak now, though, and everybody’s pretty sure he’s adopted the glorious old goat as his new pack leader, or whatever. He questioned the prisoners, but all he got was a little more about that new Grik General Halik”—Jim’s face turned grim—“with a Jap tagging along, who seemed to throw just as much weight.”

  “Kuro-kawaa himself, perhaps?”

  “No such luck. Kurokawa’s apparently General of the Sea, or something, for the whole Grik Empire now. This new Jap is a soldier. My guess is he’s one of those special Navy Jap Marines, or something, who was part of a contingent on Amagi, kind of like Alden was a shipboard Marine himself.”

  “That could be . . . bad.”

  “Right. All the more reason to stay on our toes.” He nodded at the seething shoreline. Case shot continued to burst among the trees a mile or more inland, and he imagined what it must be like to be caught beneath that clawing, shrieking hell. “At least we’re killing ’em now, and I bet we have their undivided attention!”

  “Indeed.”

  “We’ll keep this up all night. At dusk, Arracca will ‘secure from air ops in all respects’ and move in to replace the DDs with her big guns.” Lemurian/American carriers were also heavily armed with large guns, but after Humfra-Dar, they’d determined they shouldn’t function as battleships and aircraft carriers at the same time. The combination of bombs and highly flammable aviation gasoline was bad enough, but add gunpowder and open magazines to the mix, and they’d just been asking for trouble. With the freak hits on Humfra-Dar at exactly the wrong time, probably nothing would have made any difference, but they’d made as many adaptations as they could to prevent accidents from achieving the same results. Everyone knew the new safety procedures were stopgaps, but for now, it was the best they could do. “We’ll get ammunition lighters to replenish the DDs; then we’ll spread things out a little.”

  “Does that mean we will get in on the fun ourselves, at long last?” Niaal asked.

  “Sure. Everyone will. We want it to look like we’re building for the jump-off here, so the Grik’ll keep swarming in. It’s the most logical place, after all. When the sun comes up, Arracca will ‘secure from surface action’ and launch everything she’s got, loaded to the gills with incendiaries—those gasoline and sticky-sap bombs.” His eyes narrowed. “Then we’ll burn this whole corner of India to the ground! Even if they’re starting to get reports from other places, they’ll have to worry those are the diversions. One wa
y or another, they should stay tied up in knots for at least a couple of days!”

  400 miles NNE

  Near Maa-draas

  Grik Indiaa

  General Pete Alden, former Marine sergeant in USS Houston’s Marine contingent, splashed across the last few feet between the barge and the moonlit beach. He did it quickly, with a chill down his spine. The thick forest beyond the beach might harbor unknown threats aplenty, along with an only guessed-at number of their enemies, but he had confidence he could deal with that. Any opponent he could shoot remained just that: an opponent that he had a growing confidence he could best. The waters around Indiaa were some of the most dangerous they’d encountered yet, however, and maybe a little like Tony Scott, Captain Reddy’s long-lost coxswain, any physical contact with them gave him an almost supernatural case of the creeps. Maybe there weren’t as many flasher fish—tuna-size piranha, for all intents and purposes—as they endured within the Malay Barrier, but there were sharks out there that could sink a ship!

  His staff and their guards hopped across the gap with similar uneasiness and joined him amid the tumult of an army trying to sort itself out in the darkness of an unfriendly shore. In front of them was the malignant black blob of the forest. Behind, the wave tops glittered like they were strewn with floating foil. The deceptive peacefulness of the night was marred by the now-familiar chaos of amphibious operations. There was shouting, cursing, and the wailing of the vaguely moose-shape paalkas being hitched to clattering limber traces, and the deep creaking of wooden wheels as guns, wagons, forges, and all manner of vehicles were drawn through the sand. Drummers beat regimental tattoos, drawing wayward troops into growing formations—which were often thrown into confusion by other columns of troops or teams of paalkas grunting the heavy guns through their ranks. More shouting ensued. Occasional musket shots thumped in the forest as pickets or skirmishers from advancing regiments fired at lurking Grik, other frightening creatures, or perhaps nothing at all. Drowning out much of this was the constant surf sound of thousands of hushed voices and the sea.