Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(106)

“I believe it was the only one,” Brassey observed wryly.

“So?”

“And next?” Lawrence asked.

“Next we check the radio an’ Morse lamp; make sure we didn’t bust ’em. But don’t transmit,” he warned the two Khonashi comm-tokeks, as Silva called them (after the little house geckos in Java), burdened with big packs on their backs. Inside one was a hand-crank generator, folded up, that weighed forty pounds. The other contained the smallest radio they’d made yet, the same short-range set they were putting in the P-1C Mosquito Hawks, as well as a small Morse lamp. Built tough by necessity, together they weighed close to sixty pounds, and both troopers still had to carry their Allin-Silva rifles and ammunition. Their rations and other equipment had been split among the others. Dennis had most of his usual arsenal of tommy gun, .45, cutlass, and ’03 bayonet, as well as his odd flintlock pistol. At the last minute, he’d decided to leave his beloved Doom Stomper behind. It was too long and cumbersome for what they had in mind, and he’d made up the weight with extra ammo and a haversack full of grenades. He’d always liked grenades. “Then we get comfterble,” he continued. “Take a nap. It’s been a long night an’ mornin’.” He waved at the beach. “Those guys look like they’ll stick around awhile, but I doubt it’ll be too long. We’ll hang here till dark an’ try to signal our offshore support. Tell ’em we made it, an’ what we seen so far.” One of the converted AVDs (seaplane tenders), with a Nancy aboard, was supposed to steam close enough to receive their Morse lamp report sometime around midnight, then head southwest toward the African coast, and south again before repeating it by radio.

Interestingly, it and several other AVDs had been further modified as DMs, or mine layers, as well. Silva had seen the new mines that arrived with Tarakaan Island and heartily approved of them. They didn’t look much different from depth charges, but had enough buoyancy to float just under the surface and were studded with contact exploders. Weights kept them anchored in place. A keen eye would probably see them in daylight, in anything but the roughest sea, but when it came to mines, sometimes it was better when the enemy knew they were there. Dennis wished they had more of them, but most were lost in another ship in the battle north of Mahe, and they’d never get replacements in time to use them right. But they had enough for an . . . interesting scheme the Skipper cooked up. It might cost them all their AVD-DMs sometime over the next few days, but if it worked, it could give them an edge against Kurokawa’s fleet.

“So just relax,” Silva said, pulling his helmet down over his eye. “The next few nights’ll be mighty busy, once we start pokin’ around.”





CHAPTER 16


////// TF Bottle Cap

USS Santa Catalina Go Away Strait

November 18, 1944

Commander Russ Chappelle took a paper box from his shirt pocket and knocked out a PIG-cig. His trusty old Zippo flared to life and he sucked the acrid-tasting smoke. Somehow he didn’t even grimace. Getting used to the damn things, I guess, he thought, stepping farther out on Santa Catalina’s starboard bridge wing and staring past the ’Cat sailors by the pelorus and Morse lamp. Beyond, on the late-afternoon waters of the Go Away Strait, was the massive USNRS Arracca. She still looked weird in her new dazzle paint scheme, after all the time she’d just been brown, then gray, and he wondered why. Santy Cat had the same paint job and didn’t look weird anymore. He glanced at the nasty-tasting cigarette between his fingers and shrugged. Boils down to what you’re used to.

Mikey Monk sauntered out of the old ship’s armored pilothouse and joined him. Russ offered him a PIG-cig, but Monk took an exaggerated step back and shook his head. “Not me, Skipper! I can’t stand those damn things. Make my mouth taste like old socks . . . ah, probably taste.”

Russ laughed. “So that’s your secret, Mikey! Maybe I’ll try chewing old socks to get the taste out.” Monk chuckled too and they stood companionably for a while, talking about little of consequence. All the while, they stared at the ships around them, the purpling sky past the single, smoke-streaming funnel above and behind the choppy, marbled sea, and the distant dark smear of Africa beneath the setting sun. Below them, ’Cats practiced loading the big twenty-foot, ten-inch rifle mounted on the foredeck. It was the salvaged breech section of one of Amagi’s main guns, and combined with her 5.5″ secondaries and cluster of machine guns, Santy Cat was still the most powerful ship in the Alliance. She’d remain so at least until USS Gray commissioned. Her current mission was to guard Arracca against any Grik heavies that chose to poke their noses past the mouth of the Zambezi. So far, none had tried.

There was a metallic rumble on the stairs behind and they turned to see Lieutenant (jg) Dean Laney’s overstuffed form rising to join them. Looking up, he saw them watching and scowled, perhaps self-consciously, but kept coming. “God,” Mikey murmured, expecting the worst. Laney had always been an asshole, and hardly a day went by that he didn’t find something to complain about. There’d been a time when he was a match for the mighty Dennis Silva, and they’d been associates and competitors in a number of escapades over the years, but Laney had gone to seed since they came to this world—physically and spiritually. Where Silva thrived, Laney faltered, and being engineering officer of Santa Catalina was probably his last chance in Matt Reddy’s Navy. Fortunately, he really was an excellent engineer and seemed to have found his place at last. His skill, if not personality, was sufficient to win the admiration of his division. Now, if only he wouldn’t bitch so much . . .