Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(151)

“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan. Range, thirty-eight hundreds!” Minnie repeated.

Splashes rose all around Walker and she staggered under two solid hits: one aft and the other forward, in the crew’s berthing space. Savoie had lots of secondaries, and shore batteries had probably joined them by now. Wounded would be flowing to the wardroom, where Pam and her assistants were fighting their own battle to save lives.

“Skipper?” Bernie prompted.

“We’ll get around behind her, where fewer of her guns will bear,” Matt replied. He didn’t need to add that there were four 13.4″ rifles pointing that direction. So far, though the ones forward had remained busy, the aft two turrets hadn’t even tried to engage the jockeying destroyer. They probably couldn’t resist when she showed up right in front of them, though. “Right full rudder, make your course three five zero. All ahead, flank!” A light shell, something like a three-incher, hit the aft deckhouse and exploded inside. Matt raised his binoculars and saw the people on top, including Spanky, get up, just as the number-four gun fired. He wondered briefly if Earl had been in the head. A forest of splashes rose behind them, confirming he’d been right to increase speed when he did. On impulse, he swung his binoculars in the direction of Kurokawa’s HQ. He couldn’t see it through the haze and burning docks; wasn’t exactly sure where to look. But he knew if Kurokawa wasn’t on Savoie, that was where he’d be. And he could damn sure see Walker now. He prayed Sandra was safe. Was she watching too? Walker’s guns barked more hate at Savoie, each salvo punishing his ears. “How much longer on the torpedoes, Mr. Sandison?” he asked.

? ? ?

“Looky there! There’s my girl!” Silva exclaimed to his two Khonashi companions. They were hiding in a burned-out gun position, the great blackened iron tube pointing at the sky. He was impressed by the ingenious—if crudely made—mount. And it was tough too, probably not even really damaged. But its crew and all the ready ammunition had been immolated together at some point, last night or days ago. It didn’t matter; the pit was empty now. But he’d glanced up at the sound of Savoie’s main battery firing at the invisible squadron to the west, and that’s when he saw USS Walker lunge out of the smoke on the far side of the bay, spilling curling eddies behind her, her own smoke and huge battle flag streaming aft. A smaller shape, little more than a hazy speck hiding in the tall-sided wake, must be one of the MTBs, Silva thought. He felt something akin to what he supposed anxiety must be like, at the thought of his ship, his captain, his girl, his home rushing to confront the iron behemoths in the channel. There was pride too; he knew what that felt like, but also a vague sense of shame that he wasn’t out there where he belonged. “Well, that just means I gotta do this right,” he muttered, though his companions couldn’t know what he meant. Lawrence suddenly jumped in the pit with them, head darting back and forth. He almost got a bayonet in his guts.

“What’re you doin’ here?” Silva demanded.

“The ladies didn’t stay,” Lawrence reported. His tone implied they never should’ve expected otherwise.

“What the hell? Where are they now?”

“They’re all on the east side o’ Kuroka’a’s HQ, next to the . . . ’all.”

“The wall?” Dennis prompted.

“Yeah. They had good reason to not stay, though. Their hide catch sphire.” He shook his head. “Also had to tell us they caught a Leaguer—and Kuroka’a didn’t join Sa’oie, e’en a’ter she sailed. He’s in his HQ!” He nodded at the lone cruiser by the dock. “He go on that”—he pointed at the battle—“there or . . .” He waved away. “Get gone. Again.”

“Izzat so?” Silva growled, looking around. There weren’t many Grik left in the area. Most had gone south to confront Chack’s Brigade. More troops were probably coming, from other parts of the island, but none were passing through just now. The sound of fighting was increasingly intense—and close. A few Grik remained here and there, and with the air attack over, most just stared at the battle in the bay, where splashes were starting to fall around Walker. Dedicated yard or dockworkers, they probably weren’t particularly dangerous. The only exception was the dock beside the last armored Grik cruiser, where there was quite a bit of purposeful activity. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?” he said, looking speculatively at Lawrence and one of his Khonashi. “You’ll do.”

“Do?” Lawrence asked warily.

“Sure, you’ll both pass for fine, low-crouchin’ specimens o’ Grik lizardyhood. ’Specially in all the ruckus.” He laid his Thompson aside and took Lawrence’s Allin-Silva rifle. He knew it was dead-on. In return, he handed Lawrence his bag of grenades. He’d been fairly busy during the Nancy attack and there weren’t many left. He pointed at the cruiser. “Looky there. See those tall mushroom vents forward? Not the gooseneck ones by the funnel; they’re for the fireroom.”

“Yeah? So?”

“So . . . those’re vents for the fuel bunkers. Better pertected from smolderin’ shit fallin’ in ’em, see? You toss a couple grenades in there, the ship won’t blow, but it’ll burn mighty pretty—an’ fast. Me an’ Sergeant Oolak’ll cover you from here, anybody gets wise—or chases you when you haul ass.”