Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(142)
“My . . . my squadron?”
Matt frowned. “It was hard to tell, but the lookouts saw at least four destroyed. With any luck, the rest made it out, or, like us, hunkered down along the shore.”
“They might be seen,” Nat said. “We still might be seen.”
Matt glanced at his watch, then up at the brightening sky. “The enemy will have plenty to distract them again in a few minutes.”
Juan Marcos clomped up and thrust a cup of coffee—real coffee—into Nat Hardee’s hand. “Good morning, Mr. Hardee,” he said, his tone full of respect.
“Ah, you too, Juan,” Nat replied, as the Filipino turned and stumped toward the companionway leading down to the wardroom. He was muttering, “Earl Lanier has his nasty battle sammitches, if the lieutenant wants to poison himself, but there are real sandwiches below.” Nat looked dully down at the cup, savoring the aroma, afraid to trust it.
“It’s real,” Matt assured him.
“I, ah . . . What do we do now, sir?”
“For just a little longer, you and I will watch and wait, Lieutenant. We’ll reload your torpedo tubes, if we have time. If not, the extra fish we brought go over the side. I can’t have them on deck when we fight.” Likewise, the ship’s Nancy floatplane had gone over to Big Sal, to get it off the ship as well. “Eventually, the Jap-Grik will sortie, what’s left of them, when we dangle the final bait. Kurokawa won’t be able to help himself. When they do . . .” He stopped and smiled, but his eyes had turned as remorseless as the sea. “Eat,” he said instead. “Call your guys aboard to eat something too. We’ll handle the reloads.” He stopped and cocked his head to the side, listening. The firing had finally stopped once the cruisers saw there was nothing left to shoot at, but a new sound was rising over the gentle roar of the blower and the nearby surf. Planes. The clouds were starting to dissipate overhead, the lightning moving east. The haze would thicken for a while as the rising sun cooked moisture out of the jungle, but then it would become another typical equatorial day: unbearably hot, humid, and mostly clear. Matt raised his binoculars and stared northwest, studying gaps in the columns of dark smoke blending with the sky. “Enemy planes, rising from the airfield on the peninsula.” He looked northeast. “Some coming up from the one east of Kurokawa’s compound, too. Look like those twin-engine jobs. But they’re too far away to hear.” He scanned southeast and bared his teeth. “More planes. Ours. Good old Keje. His strike’s right on time.” He looked at Nat. “We may be about to witness the first fairly evenly matched dogfight between prepared participants this world has ever seen.”
“I hope it’s not too evenly matched, sir.”
“I said ‘fairly.’ I fully expect Colonel Mallory and COFO Tikker to mop them up. Now go eat. You need to get back on your boat pretty quick, and I need to be on the bridge. We might be here for two hours or ten minutes, but when the time comes for us to move, things’ll happen in a hurry.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Good luck, Mr. Hardee,” Matt said, and shook the boy’s hand again. Then he bounded up the metal steps to the bridge.
? ? ?
“Cap-i-taan on the bridge!” Minnie shouted with her squeaky voice.
“As you were,” Matt said.
Spanky was waiting for him, watching through an Impie telescope. “Tikker’s Fleashooters’re goin’ for the enemy planes. Nancys are followin’ with bombs.”
“Any sign of Ben?”
“No, sir. But there wouldn’t be.”
Matt nodded. For several moments they watched the formation of thirty P-1C Mosquito Hawks off USNRS Salissa sweeping northwest toward the growing swarm of enemy planes. Even with a combined closing speed of somewhere around 450 mph, they seemed to creep toward one another. White puffs of smoke blossomed in the sky as antiaircraft batteries lit up, and some were washed in gold as beams of sunlight played across them. Dark brown puffs, almost black, joined in, probably rising from Savoie. Matt didn’t know how they’d keep from hitting their own planes. Maybe they won’t even try, he snorted. It’s been a long night for them too, and they’re bound to be on edge. But their day’s just going to get worse and worse, if I have anything to say about it. He raised his binoculars to watch as well, noting the leading edges of the two formations were about to overlap. They’ll be shooting now, he thought, and just as he did, several enemy planes and at least two P-1s tumbled out of the sky. Some were smoking; others burning. One just fell, spinning out of control. And then, as the airborne enemies became enmeshed in a terrible embrace, he was stunned by how rapidly streams of smoke appeared, crisscrossing the sky, and aircraft started plummeting into the bay or impacting the shore with rising balls of fire. The furball—that was the only word for it—began to expand as pilots chased specific targets, their tracers, invisible from this dawn-lit distance, sawing at wings, engines, control surfaces, pilots. Greasy smears of fire erupted, drawing dark lines through the exploding shells. Most planes that caught fire fluttered apart before the fuselage, engine, and pilot hit the ground, leaving smoldering wing or tail fragments to tumble down behind them.
“Goddamn it!” Spanky grouched. “Beggin’ your pardon, Skipper, but I can’t tell what the hell’s goin’ on. Who’s winnin’? The planes look too much alike from here an’ I can’t see crap though this smoke.”