Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(108)
“This assignment’s been a grind so far,” Russ admitted, watching Fleashooters land on the carriers, tail hooks snagging the arresting cables and jerking the planes to a stop. They were always first, being the shortest on fuel. He lowered his binoculars. “But the raids are giving the Grik fits. Commodore Tassanna says her Nancys have blown the hell out of a lot of industrial sites they’ve identified along the river. Sunk some big ships too. Those new Grik BBs are tough customers, by the way. Heavier armor and fewer guns—but the fore and aft guns’re big mothers, behind sponsons. Probably on barbettes. It’ll be hot work with ’em when they come out, if our air doesn’t get ’em all first. Tassanna thinks there’s bound to be more ships and industry farther upriver, past that big-ass lake, and maybe up the other river running north. Maybe that’s where all their transports are too. Planes still haven’t seen much along those lines, but they’re concentrating on what they know is there for now. With things so stirred up, Jumbo’s afraid to risk Clippers on more long-range daylight scouts past all those rockets, and likely into more.”
“The rockets are bad news,” Monk agreed. “And as many as they shoot off, you’d think they’d run out.”
“Nah. Damn things’re so simple, they can probably crank ’em out as fast as we make shells. It’s almost humiliatin’, they’re so effective,” Laney said, startling Russ and Monk that he’d taken an interest in something beyond his engineering spaces. He seemed to notice their surprise and continued, a little defensively. “They’re just wooden tubes with fins an’ black powder motors, for Chrissakes. A lot of ’em probably blow up when they light ’em. But I looked at one o’ the early contact-fuse types we found at Grik City. Japs must’ve designed the motors an’ fuses for ’em, but from what the flyboys say, the new fuses scare me most. It took a while for us to come up with good time fuses for our guns, an’ we had some to look at.” He shrugged. “Maybe they did too. But they gotta light ’em different with a rocket. Maybe there’s a hole up the middle of the motor.” He thought about it. “Or they redirect the exhaust at the nose somehow, when they shoot ’em off. Have to get a look at their launchers.”
Russ and Monk looked at each other, then back at Laney. Russ took another drag on his cigarette. “Whatever they’re doing, however they make ’em, those stupid rockets are getting too many of our planes and people. Only a few each day, but it adds up.”
“Put enough musket balls, or whatever they use for shrapnel, in the air, and it doesn’t matter if it’s on the way up or down. You’re liable to run into some sooner or later,” Monk said. Russ watched the second-to-last Mosquito Hawk coming in astern of Arracca. By his count, most had made it back. When the pursuit ships were all down, the carrier would slow almost to a stop and begin recovering Nancys. Russ suddenly raised his binoculars again. The very last fighter descending toward Arracca was smoking, coming in too low and slow. Even as he watched, it struck the aft edge of Arracca’s flight deck and burst into flames. The smoldering engine tore away and cartwheeled forward until it snagged in the net rigged across the deck, even with the conn tower. The rest of the flaming wreckage dropped in the churning wake of the huge ship, the spreading fuel fire bright against the darkening sea.
“Damn,” Monk murmured grimly into the silence on the bridgewing.
“Staan by the sea-plane re-cov-ry detail!” came the voice on the loudspeaker again. “We got two hurt Naancys, gonna land alongside wit wounded aboard.” They immediately felt the ship begin to slow. Russ stayed where he was. To interfere might be seen as a lack of confidence in his officer of the deck, and this had all become routine. He did glance up and spot the damaged planes as they left the circling formation above, headed for his ship. He also thought he heard the distant, higher rumble of the flock of PB-5Ds heading in for their night attack. Still flying from the Comoros Isles, they used the task force as a way point. But if our friends can see us, so can the enemy, Russ thought. His greatest fear was always that Grik zeppelins would hit them now, when they could still see their targets, and before Arracca could get sufficient pursuit ships turned around to respond to what the CAP or the task-force screen spotted coming in.
“I wonder,” Laney said. Russ and Monk both looked at him again. “The transports,” Laney continued. “What if they ain’t got any? What if the Grik ain’t comin’ at all?”
“They’re somewhere,” Russ disagreed. “We haven’t sunk near all their BBs. Like I said, they’re tough. And they have other stuff too, that we already know of. More cruisers, at least.” He looked back at the dying fire on the water. “Those are offensive weapons, and can’t just sit in port an’ take what we’ve been giving them forever. And their huge army’s in the city now, too. Probably safer, even in the rubble, than it was out in the open, but troops can’t sit there and take it forever either.” He scratched his chin. “No, they’re still coming.” His eyes hardened. “It’s what they do, remember? How they do it or when, I don’t know, but whatever happens, it’s liable to be something we don’t expect. Again.”
The Palace of Vanished Gods
Old Sofesshk
Sofesshk was burning—again—and Esshk and the Chooser paced in their usual place, each alone with his thoughts, brooding and forming his own ideas of what must be done. As had become the norm, the small enemy planes had come and done their worst in daylight, concentrating on factories and warships. Then the big planes followed with the night, raining fire indiscriminately on the teeming city across the river. The rocket batteries had small successes, occasionally damaging or destroying an enemy plane, but they did considerable harm to the city themselves, exploding on the ground, flying erratically and detonating where they struck, or sometimes the fascinating new fuses malfunctioned, until they fell from the sky. Even the scores of balls they blasted away when they worked perfectly had to come down somewhere, and many on the ground were injured or killed by those. But none of that compared to the destruction the enemy brought. Great sections of the city had become a charred, shattered wasteland, and more surged with living, spreading fires tonight, pulsing and shimmering, leaping and roaring, beneath the great pall of smoke they made. Esshk didn’t much care about the toll among the city’s Uul, too stupid to seek shelter or even flee in the right direction from the rampant, greedy flames. But the losses his Final Swarm, his army, was suffering, though still miniscule in comparison, were no longer trifling. And the damage to its carefully cultivated discipline and sense of purpose could not be measured.