Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(114)
“What do you make of them, Alferez?” the captain asked the young ensign on the starboard bridgewing in a louder voice. Alferez Tomas Perez Moles wasn’t quite twenty, and was slightly built with blond hair and a fair complexion. He’d been a mere first-year officer cadet when the entire Confederation task force suddenly found itself on this . . . different Earth. Since then, he’d progressed rapidly, and Abuello Falto had high hopes for him. He was an excellent seaman and the men respected him despite his youth. If he had a single flaw, it was perhaps a lack of fervency for League ideals. But that might change, and avoiding politics was always best for younger officers.
Tomas was also straining his eyes through a pair of binoculars, trying to make out details of the ships now less than 1,200 meters away. “Matarife seems to have suffered worse than the American. Both are torn by battle and storm, but though the American seems little hurt, Matarife was clearly raked. Her bows have been dreadfully abused and she must’ve lost her foremast. It’s been crudely repaired.”
“Damage consistent with eagerness to close with the enemy and board,” Abuello Falto murmured, nodding. “That’s how they took her, no doubt. Donaghey’s crew was not reputed to be large. What else do you see?” he called.
“A signal for assistance,” Tomas replied. “But all the cannon on both ships are run out, and pointing . . . generally at us as we approach,” he added with a concerned glance at his captain. Abuello Falto stepped out on the wing and raised his own binoculars.
“She has suffered cruelly indeed,” he agreed. “Do not mind the guns, Alferez. Why should they threaten us? We are now allies of the Dominion, are we not?” He said the last with a grimace, still dwelling on the Blood Priests. He shook his head. “It’s in the nature of primitive ships of that sort that all their guns point to the side. There’s nothing they can do about it. Fear not. No doubt the guns are run out to air the deck and make room for repairs. And look: there are hoses discharging water through the gunports, and they toss debris through them as well. Look again, Alferez, they wave! They welcome us!” He paused and considered. “Though there are dreadfully few of them. The fighting must have been horrific. It’s a wonder they managed to sail both ships, and through a storm as well.” He lowered the binoculars at last. “Of course they request assistance. We will stand in and render it.”
Antúnez slowed and crept into the anchorage. The entrance was guarded by dangerous reefs, and she took her time. All the while, Tomas continued to study the ships, still slightly on edge despite his captain’s assurance. And his eyes kept going back to the guns. Their size—the Americans’ looked to be 130 mm or so, and there were twelve of them to a side, not counting a few lighter ones on the main deck. If anything, Matarife’s looked even bigger: sixteen on the gundeck and eight smaller ones above. At least thirty-six guns were pointed at them, all larger than the three 102 mm guns in Antúnez main battery. Granted, his ship’s weapons were far superior—at a distance—but they were getting very, very close. And though all Antúnez weapons were manned, none were trained out, their crews lounging around them unconcerned. He squinted. Was it just his imagination, or did it seem like all those guns were somehow . . . tracking Antúnez? Continually shifting, ever so slightly, to adjust their aim? He hesitated to mention it because he couldn’t see anyone moving them, past the gunports, and Capitan Abuello Falto seemed so sure. It had to be his imagination. He refocused on the deck.
The capitan was certainly right that there were very few people in view. Only a couple still watched their approach as Antúnez made a leisurely turn to come alongside, now less than a hundred meters distant. They were officers, apparently, judging by the old-fashioned hats on their heads. One wore a coat, but the other was in shirtsleeves, as though he’d been helping with the work. That seemed odd. Dominion officers wouldn’t stoop to manual labor, any more than his officers would. And something else struck him. Every single man working on the ships appeared to have his back turned and his head covered, and almost seemed to be . . . crouching a bit. All he could see over the ship’s bulwarks was their shoulders and heads. Then he noticed the strangest thing of all: not a single soul was aloft, working on the rigging.
“All stop,” came the order within the pilothouse. “Drop anchor. Prepare the launch.”
“Capitan,” he said hesitantly. His voice strengthening as conviction grew. “Capitan, something is wrong.”
The anchor splashed and Capitan Abuello Falto looked at him questioningly. Then Tomas saw his eyes widen in stunned disbelief, and he turned just in time to see the Dom flags on both ships suddenly stream away and fall into the bay, their halyards slashed. Instantly, the Stars and Stripes raced to the top of Matarife’s mainmast.
“Surrendero!” cried the harsh, determined voice of one of the officers through a speaking trumpet. “Surrender now, damn it! Touch a gun and we open fire!”
The capitan said nothing, utterly frozen where he stood. A heartbeat later, Teniente Casales Padilla raced to the aft bulkhead and activated the general alarm. “Battle stations! Battle stations! Action starboard. All guns, commence firing!” he shouted over the shipwide circuit, his voice thundering outside and screeching with feedback.
Capitan Abuello Falto blinked, then rushed to push his executive officer away. “No!” he shouted over the raucous alarm as he reached for the switch. “It’s too late—we’re too close! We must surrender, even as we send a distress signal. We will not be—” He never finished. One of the ship’s two 47 mm antiaircraft guns spoke, its distinctive voice reaching them over the noise. Perhaps its crew had been as skeptical as Tomas, or maybe they were simply better trained, more prepared than others. And their weapon was easier to bring to bear than the rest of the ship’s arsenal, in any event. Just as the capitan already knew, however, resistance was pointless, and his XO’s reaction, though perhaps laudable, had doomed his ship.