Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(122)
He looked at the almost equally massive USS Tarakaan Island. She carried half their assault force and one of the few aces he had to play. He hated that they had to take her so close to danger; she represented their only means of repairing serious battle damage and might be very busy when this was over—if she survived. Behind the two biggest ships were a large number of oilers and other auxiliaries. Alan Letts had moved Heaven and earth to get as much to them as he could, after TF Alden’s losses, but could only replace so much, so fast. And if they lost more, there was no telling how long it would take to replace the ships, crews, and cargos. Pete, Rolak, and Safir might have to go on the defensive at Grik City after all. Matt smiled. Letts had tried to send the new cruiser, USS Fitzhugh Gray, but she flat wasn’t ready and Matt forbade it. Fully complete and worked up, she would’ve been very welcome, but untried and unfinished, she might not even make it there, and waiting for her would impose an unacceptable delay. There’d be more than enough for Gray to do when the time was right.
Surrounding the task force in a wide semicircle to port were the sail-steam DDs of Des-Ron 6, including Jarrik-Fas’s Tassat, Muraak-Saanga’s Scott, and Naala-Araan’s old Nakja-Mur. To starboard were Clark, Saak-Fas, and Bowles of Des-Ron 10. All were veterans, and a couple, like Tassat, were barely seaworthy even after extensive repairs. Still, only Nakja-Mur, the oldest ship in the task force besides Walker and Salissa, and one of their very first steamers, seemed to be having trouble keeping up. Her engine had been very hard-used over time, and even with every stitch of canvas she could carry, she was sagging behind. Mentally comparing what he had to fight with against what they knew Kurokawa had, Matt needed every ship. But if Nakja-Mur couldn’t keep up, he’d have to send her back to Mahe. Grimly, he turned and stepped back in the pilothouse, but almost released a snort of amusement when he saw the embroidered cushion on his chair again. Someone had slipped in and secured it during the refit. Perry Brister’s chair in Ellie had one, and it must’ve been decided that he—and Walker—needed one too. His amusement was fleeting, however, and the frown returned as he sat.
“Good morning, Skipper!” Lieutenant Ed Palmer said cheerfully, suddenly standing by his chair. Matt let the frown slide off his face and looked at the young signal officer. The reversion to signal designation from comm just seemed more appropriate now, since they used signal flags, Morse lamps, and rockets just as much as radio and CW. More, actually, for line-of-sight communication. And in addition to Henry Stokes in Baalkpan, Ed was responsible for formulating and distributing new codes, as well as trying to break them. He spoke some French, and he’d had some success with League voice codes—before they changed them again. Undaunted, he’d started again.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Palmer,” Matt said, glancing significantly at the Imperial chronometer secured to the aft bulkhead. It was 1222. “I believe you’re late. You were on the watch bill as OOD for the afternoon watch.” Matt wanted all his officers able to conn the ship, and Ed had always been reluctant to assume that responsibility, not trusting his seamanship.
Ed’s smile vanished. “Aye, sir. I apologize. It won’t happen again. I was going over the command codes for Outhouse Rat, and got, ah . . .” He stiffened. “No excuse, sir.” He glanced at Tabby, who’d had the conn since 0800, and she grinned back at him. When Matt said every officer, he meant it, and Tabby’s engines and boilers were doing fine.
“Then you better get to it. I’m sure Tabby’s anxious to check things out below.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Ed turned to Lieutenant Tab-At. “I, ah, I’m ready to relieve you, sir.”
The ’Cat at the big brass wheel chuckled behind Tabby as, just as formally, she replied, “I’m ready to be relieved. Course is tree one seero, fifteen knots. Wind’s outa the north-northeast, an’ the sea’s runnin’ about six feet, but moder—gettin’ less. Ellie’s on station six miles east, an’ the taask force is tree miles aft, makin’ ten knots, an’ zig-zaaggin’. We’re due to alter course an’ exchange positions with Ellie in”—she glanced at the chronometer—“twenty-five minutes.” At preselected times, but seemingly at random, Walker and James Ellis converged and passed each other to take the other ship’s position in the screen. Not only did the maneuver allow the task force to keep up, but if there was a sub out there, it might shake it up and help detect it.
“Thanks, Tabby—I mean, I relieve you, sir!”
“I staan relieved,” Tabby replied. “Attention in the pilothouse: Lieuten-aant Palmer has the deck!”
Self-consciously, Ed took her place and, clasping his hands behind his back, peered out over the plunging, bucking fo’c’sle.
Spanky McFarlane chose that moment to join them. He had his own cup of coffee and seemed enormously pleased with himself. He tapped the deck with his shoe. “She sure feels fine, huh, Skipper?”
“That she does,” Matt agreed. “Another big job ahead, though,” he added.
“Sure, but that’s nothing new.”
“No, but the stakes . . .” Matt shook his head. “I keep running the plan through my mind, trying to find flaws. It’s not all that complicated, but a lot can go wrong.”
“Stuff always goes wrong,” Spanky told him gently. “You know that.” He waved back at the little fleet behind them. “And everybody knows what to do when it does. Chack’s got better intel than we’ve ever had before jumping on a beach, the minelayers did what they were supposed to before they got chased off, an’ that idiot Silva knows where they’re keeping our people. His reports on Savoie are kinda weird, though. Don’t know what to make of that. But if everybody does their job, we got a better than even chance o’ pullin’ this off.” He chuckled. “Since those’re better odds than we ever had before, I’d say it makes this stunt a sure thing!”