Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(121)

It helped that Imperial inches, feet, and yards were the same in principle, even if other weights and measures were screwy. But as Allied designs for things went to the Empire, so did Allied calipers and other measuring devices. Interchangeability had been so heavily stressed that innovation sometimes suffered, with manufacturers occasionally disdaining improved designs for various parts simply because they wouldn’t exactly fit existing assemblies that otherwise worked just fine. One example was Baalkpan Arsenal’s refusal to replace the brittle flat mainsprings in its rifle locks with new, improved coil springs—because then they’d have to change the tumblers as well. Instead, they attempted to improve the flat springs and sent out lots of spares. Things like that were understandable in wartime, Matt supposed. Design changes caused production delays they could ill afford, and the obsession with interchangeability didn’t much affect the development of new weapons or prevent qualitative innovations. For example, Walker’s new shaft packing that so reduced vibration was identical to what she was built with, but the materials, the naturally creosoted trees in northwest Borno, were better. Innovations of that sort left him confident that now that Lemurian inventiveness had been unleashed, they’d never be hopelessly shackled to the tried and true once the pressure of “good enough now is better than perfect later” was eased.

And interchangeability was a wonderful thing. Tarakaan Island had carried entire extra boilers. If they’d had time, they could’ve installed a new one where Walker’s old number one used to be. They’d never removed the stack above it after all. Not only was it useful for venting the forward fireroom when the need arose, but Adar once convinced him that it would diminish the appearance of his ship in the eyes of his people—make her look incomplete, less capable somehow. Matt conceded, still hoping to someday replace the boiler, but, honestly, even he hadn’t relished the image of the gap-toothed silhouette that would result. Still, even if they had all the time in the world, with three healthy boilers, Matt wasn’t sure he would’ve replaced the fourth. It would cost them the fuel bunker they’d installed in its place, and the extra few knots might not balance the range penalty. He’d reassess all that if he ever did have time—and if he and his old ship lived long enough. That returned his thoughts to the action ahead and he frowned as he set his cup down and lurched to his feet.

Raising his binoculars, he watched a pair of Mosquito Hawks of Salissa’s Combat Air Patrol complete the northern leg of their pattern and then turn south. There were Nancys up there too, farther out, watching for anything approaching the task force. They’d heard the engine drone of the big PB-5Ds before dawn, heading back to Mahe after another raid on Zanzibar. Two were lost this time, and he grieved for the planes and pilots. They have it awful tough, he reflected, immediately turning around at the Comoros Islands after missions over Sofesshk, to fly all the way up to Zanzibar via Mahe. Now they’d go back. He was asking a lot of the big seaplane bombers—and their crews—and Sofesshk had been anything but a cakewalk. The strange Grik rockets were knocking planes down as well, as the enemy’s aim, and possibly the rockets themselves, improved. Fortunately, as promised, replacements from Baalkpan continued to make up for losses. So far. The latest raid on Zanzibar had focused on the southernmost airfield, so at least Matt felt confident it hadn’t killed his wife, now that he knew about where she was. The thought that she might die due to actions undertaken at his orders had tormented him beyond words. And it was possible she still could. There’d be one final raid, and then who knew what would happen when the full attack commenced. But to know she was still alive now, thanks to Silva’s report, was a tremendous comfort.

He directed the binoculars to the right. Far across the heaving sea, about six miles to the east, he occasionally caught glimpses of USS James Ellis, apparently matching Walker’s renewed vivacity, as the two practically identical destroyers screened ahead of the plodding task force. For just a moment, in spite of everything, the sight let Matt peel back the years; wash away all the blood, anxiety, and crushing responsibility; and pretend it was Mahan over there, or Pope or Stewart or another old comrade Walker had paced in similar fashion in another place, before another war. But James Ellis wasn’t one of those other ships, Matt remembered with regret, and was, in a way, far more distant than a mere six miles of boisterous sea. She was separated from Walker by a quarter century and another world.

Shaking his head, he stepped out on the starboard bridgewing. Nodding at the Lemurian lookouts, he stared aft, past the wisping funnels, the amidships deckhouse, the searchlight tower, and the aft deckhouse, with its gun crew exercising the tall 4″-50 on its DP mount. The roiling wake churned white and peeled back and away, leaving a broadening, darkening V that shattered on the following waves. About three miles back was his little fleet, arrayed in two columns. USNRS Salissa was on the right, its massive form seeming almost motionless, the brisk sea barely affecting it. As he watched her, he suspected Keje was probably looking back. They’d been through so much together, and he wished, unreasonably, he could be on Walker beside him. Keje’s gruff but irrepressible personality rarely failed to cheer him and always helped keep things in perspective.

But Keje’s duty was to his carrier, his Home, and that was where he belonged. Her forward flight deck was cluttered with Mosquito Hawks, ready to escort the PB-1B Nancy floatplanes that would attack with bombs beneath their wings. Behind them, Ben Mallory’s four operational P-40Es were securely strapped to the deck. They’d take off last, ready to react to whatever went after the others. Nobody was happy about the recovery procedures, and even if they all made it back, they might still lose them. If Chack’s Brigade can overrun one of the Grik airstrips . . . began the thought, but Matt shook his head. They couldn’t count on that. One way or another, the next few days might mean the end of almost all their carefully hoarded modern fighters. If that’s the case, we’ll manage, he decided. And if there’s such a thing as fate, maybe this is what they were for all along.