Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(149)
“What the hell’s that doin’ here! It should’a been struck down below!” he bellowed. Two ’Cat heads popped out of the galley over the battered stainless-steel counter.
“Aaaw, c’mon, Earl!” one said. “Is busted agaan, anyway. Even when it’s runnin’, you don’t put nothin’ in it! Why you keep it for?”
Earl summoned his resources to continue his rant, but stopped. Then he removed his filthy hat and scratched his head. “You know? Damned if I know. I used to, but not anymore.” He shrugged. “The hell with it. Leave it. Let it take its chances with the rest of us.” The two ’Cats looked at each other, their pose and rapid blinking so hilarious that he laughed out loud. Just then, they heard the deep roar of mighty guns. Of the three, only Earl had ever heard anything so big go off. He quickly waddled into the galley, snatched a sandwich, and stuck it in his mouth. “Savoie’s opened up, fellas,” he mumbled around it. “C’mon, we got work to do.” He nodded at the platter of sandwiches for the crew. “Not near enough there. Let’s get stackin’.”
USS James Ellis
“Savoie has opened fire!” announced Lieutenant Jeff Brooks. Ordinarily Ellie’s sound man, he’d relieved the bridge talker so he could see what was going on for a change. He wouldn’t be able to hear anything underwater for a while, in any event.
“Hard not to see it,” replied Commander Perry Brister in his rough, scratchy voice, raised over the roaring blower, shooshing sea, and the wind whipping in from the bridgewings, as his ship sprinted at thirty-two knots. He still looked like a kid, but ever since the Battle of Baalkpan he’d sounded like a seventy-year-old chain smoker. Two huge splashes spewed skyward back near the ten DDs and AVDs of Des-Rons 6 and 10, currently steaming in line of battle as Des-div 2, under Captain—acting Commodore—Jarrik-Fas in USS Tassat. Two more fell in the same general area but were surprisingly haphazard, and it seemed as if only one of Savoie’s turrets was firing. Perry wondered why. Ellie was racing down to lay a smoke screen between Des-div 2 and the equal number of armored Grik cruisers making for them.
Ellie was out of range of the Grik, but everything Savoie had could reach her. The first two salvos, though wild, missed long, and her secondaries would soon come to bear. Ellie could hit back, but probably couldn’t hurt her. All she had that might do that were eight torpedoes, and they were for the Grik BBs. Hopefully Walker would take care of Savoie. For now, Ellie could at least try to hide Des-div 2 from the heavies until the battle lines embraced, and maybe she could do a little more. “Tell Mr. Stites to commence firing the main battery to port, targeting the cruisers,” he rasped. “We’ll start with the first and work our way back. A salvo of AP into each. Let’s try to beat ’em all up a little before we turn ’em over to Commodore Jarrik.”
Almost at once, the salvo buzzer rang and three guns barked. Tightly spaced splashes rose in front of the leading Grik cruiser, and Perry had no doubt the next salvo would be on target. “Stand by to make smoke,” he said, raising the Impie telescope. “Execute.” Thick black smoke piled high in the air from Ellie’s four stacks. Equally thick gray smoke streamed aft from smoke generators on either side of her aft deckhouse. The huge, dark cloud she left was stunning to behold and hard to imagine it could be created by something as small as she. All the while, the numbers one, two, and four 4″-50s banged away with metronomic precision. More huge splashes rose around Ellie, still strangely wild, but smaller ones were joining them, much closer, tighter. There was a blast aft, near the Nancy catapult.
“That one took out the cat,” Brooks reported, “and the starboard twenty-five-millimeter mount. About a dozen casualties,” he added.
Perry winced. A dozen friends, hurt or killed. He raised his glass and saw that a couple of cruisers were starting to lag a little and one had a fire aft of its funnel. “Very well. They’ve got our range. Come about to a heading of zero four zero. Main battery will continue to target the cruisers once we clear our smoke. Stand by starboard tubes. Torpedoes will target the Grik BBs.” Even as Ellie turned, a flurry of 5.46″ and 3″ shells churned the sea around her. One hit the side under the port torpedo mount, knocking it askew in a flashing explosion and spilling its fish into the sea. Steam gushed up the stack and out the gaping hole the shell punched in the hull. Another shell hit the back of the charthouse, shredding the forward stack and sending fragments sleeting through the bridge.
Perry stood, shaking his head, ears roaring. His white uniform was suddenly blackened and smoldering in several places and there was blood on the back of his right hand. Jeff Brooks was down and screaming, trying to gather his guts off the splintered deck strakes. There was no one at the wheel. Lemurian corpses lay beside it and the lee helm both, their blood spattered on the windows. Oddly, only one window was broken, but the steel around them looked like it had taken a giant shotgun blast. Perry quickly grasped the wheel, looking at the compass. He tried to spin the wheel but his hands slipped on the blood that painted it. Taking a firmer hold, he completed their turn. More shells exploded in their wake, but even as he coughed on the smoke they’d made, he was profoundly grateful for it.
“For-waard fireroom outa aaction!” came a shout loud enough to clear his damaged hearing. He glanced back to see the ship’s Lemurian cook, Taarba-Kaar “Tabasco,” standing in the talker’s place. Jeff wasn’t moving anymore. Usually, Tabasco spoke better English than any human aboard, but the stress was showing. “Portside torpedo mount’s outa aaction too. Caa-shultees there, on the gaally deckhouse . . . an’ here. Loo-ten-aant Paarks says all the snipes in the for-waard fireroom is goners.” Paul Stites dropped down the ladder from the fire-control platform. He was wounded in the arm but his eyes looked worse, taking in the carnage in the pilothouse. Immediately, he moved to take the wheel from Perry, who stood back, breathing hard. “Loo-ten-aant Ronson—I mean, Rodriguez—aasks should he take the auxiliary conn aaft.” Tabasco added.