Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(134)
“No buts, Chief Silva,” Sandra said. “I’ll let you and the rest do the heavy lifting, I promise.” She added quickly, “But don’t you see? That maniac meant to use me as a weapon against my husband, our cause. If in any way my presence helps you prevent that—and I can already think of several ways—I have to be there. Do you understand?”
“Maybe,” Silva grudged, mashing his sweat-soggy eyepatch to drain it before its weight made it sag off his face. “But if I let anything happen to you, the Skipper’ll keelhaul me on Big Sal. An’ I’d have it comin’ too.”
“Don’t worry, Chief Silva. I believe we have a couple of excellent plans, and we will make them work.”
Breathing hard, but otherwise accompanied only by the rattle of weapons, the soft clatter of accoutrements and ammunition magazines, the dull clinking of .50-80 shells in cartridge boxes, and Silva’s incessant humming, the enlarged team hurried on with a more specific and deadly purpose.
CHAPTER 22
Lizard Ass Bay
It was pitch-dark as eight PT boats of Lieutenant Nat Hardee’s MTB-Ron-1 thundered north at twenty-five knots, their light hulls planing and bouncing in the choppy sea between Island Number 3 to the west and Number 1 to the east. Occasional lightning still flashed from the overhanging clouds, providing some visibility, but also creating an ominous atmosphere that Nat found hard to ignore. By most definitions, even Lemurians’, he was still just a kid, but he’d seen and done a lot since arriving on this world aboard the old S-19. He’d been back aboard S-19 when she was rammed and sunk by a Grik dreadnaught and had to escape—almost straight up—through a torpedo tube with only a few feet of the sub’s bow remaining above the surface. He’d participated in a night torpedo attack at the Battle of Grik City, and experienced eerie combat on a jungle river against savage and rarely seen attackers. Still, tested as he was, he remained just a teenager and command of the entire squadron had been an unexpected—terrifying—thrill.
He felt no terror now that the waiting was over, however, and he was leading his little “mosquito fleet” into battle. Perhaps a measure of anxiousness persisted about what lay ahead, and that was wholly understandable. They were charging full speed aboard frail little boats, into a stirred-up hornet’s nest with what was probably the highest concentration of overwhelming firepower any Allied force ever faced. What was more, his squadron was all alone.
The strait was only about four miles wide and Nat couldn’t see Island Number 3 at all. He barely saw Number 1 because it was highlighted by the dockyard fires left by the bombing raid. It was enough. His veteran Seven boat, Lucky Seven, had the best crew in the squadron, and her XO, Lieutenant (jg) Rini-Kanaar, was a wonder. She’d studied to become a Sky Priest before the war and still hoped to be one someday. She’d make a good one, with her uncanny memory of images and knack for mentally superimposing charts or scrolls she’d seen upon the sea around her, automatically calculating where their speed, course, leeway, sea conditions, even the currents (when they knew them) would put the boat at any given moment. Her dead reckoning was dead-on to a degree Nat hadn’t imagined possible. With her steering the Seven boat, the rest of the squadron had only to follow its frothy, phosphorescent wake exactly where they needed to be. And as soon as they rounded the north end of Island Number 1, they’d have a fine, fire-lit view of the anchorage beyond, while the same light marking the enemy should hide them as they approached. Nat reminded himself not to stare at the flames, to protect his night vision. But when we are seen . . . came the sudden, seditious thought.
“I’m sure glaad we ain’t goin’ at that daamn Saavoie. Her big guns give me the creeps!” Rini shouted at him, probably talking to settle her nerves. That was fine. Nat’s nerves had spiked a bit, thinking about the ex-League battleship.
“Me too,” he agreed. “And she doesn’t even need her biggest ones. Her secondaries can shred us farther away than our torpedoes will even go.”
“Yaah. We still gotta get past all them kroozers, though,” Rini reminded.
“We do,” Nat acknowledged. “But they’ll be surprised, trying to hit smaller, faster, surface targets than they’ve probably ever seen—with muzzle-loading cannon.” Nat didn’t think any Grik cruisers had ever faced Walker and survived, so sufficiently leading anything fast shouldn’t come naturally to any of their gunners. He might be wrong, he supposed, but they would be surprised—especially when only a few boats actually attacked them. The rest had other business.
Finally, the mouth of the North Channel began to open before them. Rini eased her helm over and they roared through the entrance, little more than a mile wide. The question now was shore batteries, and the hairs on the back of Nat’s neck stood up. They knew the batteries were there, but would their crews see the little flotilla speeding between the peninsula and Island Number 1? Maybe they were still scanning the skies, watching for planes. The PTs would certainly sound like planes from shore. Even if the enemy spotted them, they wouldn’t see them well, and any hits they achieved would be pure luck. Probably catastrophic luck, given the size of their guns—and possibly catastrophic whether they hit or not, since the batteries would alert their targets.
Maybe they’re distracted, Nat hoped. I don’t think they can see the fighting to the southeast—I can’t anymore, with the island blocking the view—but maybe they’ve received word? Perhaps they’re watching out to sea for another landing force? A wry smile touched his lips. No one would be insane enough to run a few little boats into a harbor full of powerful warships. “Steady as you go,” Nat told Rini as the bow aimed directly at the center of the channel. He took a step and turned the switch activating the clattering alarm bell for a few seconds, calling his crew to their battle stations. It wasn’t really necessary. Everyone had been in place since the shoal of MTBs spilled out of Tarakaan Island. A pair of ’Cats were forward, behind the new splinter shield protecting the water-cooled .30-caliber machine gun. Two were stationed at the torpedo tubes, one on either beam, and three stood behind Nat and Rini, ready to operate their second machine gun on whichever side of the cockpit they were directed. They’d also be ready to take Nat’s or Rini’s place if either got hit. Finally, two ’Cats sweltered and shed fur in the hot motor room, between the big six-cylinder Sea Gypsy engines mounted side by side.