Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(107)
“Skipper,” Laney said. He didn’t speak to Monk, but that was normal. He and Santy Cat’s XO didn’t like each other very much.
“Laney,” Russ acknowledged, then sighed. “What’s the problem?”
Laney looked confused. “I, ah . . . nothin’, Skipper. No problems to report.” He seemed to think about it. “I wouldn’t mind if the bunkers were topped off. We’ve done a fair amount of high-speed steamin’ lately.” Russ and Monk both stared at him. “High speed” was kind of relative for their ship, her top end being barely twelve knots, with all the extra armor and armaments she carried. But she had to keep up with the carriers and sail/steam DDs, all of which could make fifteen when they had to. And with their position known to the enemy, they’d been burning a lot of fuel dodging Grik zeppelins at night. Arracca’s Mosquito Hawks tore the formations apart and kept them off their backs, but a few always got through and they had to evade their bombs. So far, there’d been very little damage. A few near misses were the worst. And there hadn’t been any suicider bombs. Maybe training their pilots had always been a Kurokawa thing. Or maybe even the Grik down here are training them for something else now. Russ wondered. At least the bombings at Grik City have stopped, giving Second Corps and Leedom’s flyboys a break—not to mention maybe keeping the Grik from getting wise when First and Third Corps come down. And we’re finally narrowing down where some of the Grik air bases must be. We’ll get ’em soon. Russ didn’t understand why, but finding and eliminating those bases had suddenly—briefly, he was assured—become a lower priority than before. He shook his head, still staring at Laney. That their fuel state was all he could come up with to gripe about today was . . . phenomenal. Was it possible he was straightening out at last, finally looking beyond his own narrow priorities? Using his own real knowledge and skill to sort things out in his division without demanding someone tell him to? Could he have actually discovered constructive initiative? Russ hoped so.
Chief Bosun’s Mate Stanley “Dobbin” Dobson stepped out of the pilothouse and it occurred to Russ that, except for Surgeon Commander Kathy McCoy and Major Simy Gutfeld of the 3rd Marines, every human aboard Santy Cat now stood together. And Kathy had only just left, possibly sensing Laney was coming. Laney had been ineffectually, somewhat sulkily, sweet on her for a long time. As far as anyone could tell, Kathy flat wasn’t interested. There’d once been a lot more humans in Santa Catalina, but most had gone to new construction and some were lost at Second Madras—along with James Ellis. Not many of us left, Russ reflected.
“The strike’s coming in,” Dobbin told them, nodding back at the pilothouse. “Bridge talker just got it from the wireless shack.” Russ raised his rare, precious binoculars and looked west, the glare of the setting sun making his eyes water through the glass. “Very well,” he said. “Pass the word to the quartermaster. We’ll ease closer to Arracca and take our usual station. Sway out the motor launch and have the recovery crew stand by.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Dobbin stepped back in the pilothouse, relayed the command to the OOD, then walked briskly back past them, blowing his bosun’s pipe. The loudspeaker crackled and the bridge talker’s voice echoed through the ship. “All haans! Staan by for re-cov-ry maan-oo-vers! Line haanlers an’ marksmen, report to you stations! Aantiair baat-ries, maan you guns!”
TF Bottle Cap had started hitting Sofesshk and the military and industrial centers beyond it every day. Whenever the airstrikes returned, every ship of the nearby screen prepared to recover flight crews as fast as they could, in case damaged planes or wounded pilots missed their landings on the carriers. There was little they could do for P-1s that went in the water, except send the motor launch and try to get their pilots out before the voracious flasher fish—or other things—did. Nancys always landed on the water, but if they were badly damaged, they’d set down alongside Santa Catalina so they wouldn’t clog recovery operations around the carrier. Santy Cat still had her cargo booms aft and would take the crew aboard, then lift the damaged plane whether it would ever fly again or not. They could always salvage parts. And Kathy and her large medical team were there to treat injured flyers. Picked riflemen from the 3rd Marines prepared to discourage larger predators like gri-kakka. There were a bunch of those in the strait, big ones, and different from what they’d ever seen. But there was little evidence rifles bothered them much. The machine guns did a better job, but were also manned in case some kind of enemy attack followed their own planes in. After the Battle of Mahe, they’d never assume anything again.
They prepared to do much the same each night, after the big boys, the PB-5D flying boats, went in. Clippers carried heavier bomb loads but were also more vulnerable to Grik defenses. Whereas the Nancys and Fleashooters went after specific targets they could see in daylight, the Clipper’s job, for now, was area “terror” bombing of the Grik capital city—though still not Old Sofesshk across the river. So far, the Clippers had been amazingly lucky. Several had limped in to land alongside Santy Cat for quick repairs or gas, after losing fuel from punctured tanks, but they’d lost only two of the big planes and their crews. One, badly damaged and smoking, set down too far away for any ship’s launch to reach before it burst into flames and sank. The other had simply disappeared. But Jumbo had eighteen now, with more arriving all the time, and a dozen dedicated to the bombing effort.