Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(154)

Through Horn’s range-finding periscope, the explosion of the Grik BB happened practically simultaneously with the gout of gunsmoke that momentarily blinded him, and it was several moments before he saw what they’d done. They all felt it, though; the underwater pressure slamming the ship, then the pieces, some huge, began raining down. Incredulous shrieking was already rattling the speaker from the bridge, and Kapitan Leutnant Becher Lange was yelling “Je suis desole!” over and over. He looked pale and weak but was grinning like an idiot, and his apology didn’t sound very sincere.

“Reload!” Stuart Brassey yelled. “As fast as we can before they shut us off!”

They could feel the ship turning to starboard, to avoid the sinking wreck ahead, and Horn tried to get the other BB in his sights. Smoke was everywhere, and something large and jagged was lying on top of the number one turret in front of them, but the last Grik BB was still steaming, apparently unconcerned, about 1,500 yards off the port bow. He tried to keep it in the crosshairs as the turn suddenly sharpened, and for a moment it was clear. “How’s the reload coming?” he shouted. Just then, three tall waterspouts, probably 150 feet high, marched down the length of the ironclad battleship, one after another. He blinked. “Jesus!” he roared. “Ellie just put three fish in the other heavy!” The eruption of cheers was cut off by a sudden, terrible jolt that slammed those in the gunhouse against the hard, unforgiving objects around them. Horn fell away from the eyepiece and smacked his head against the back of the booth; blood streamed down his face from a split brow. The lights dimmed but came back. “I think we just collected a fish or two ourselves,” Horn said muzzily, leaning forward again. He wiped blood away, but still could hardly see.

“Lords!” shouted their pet Grik. “Look! Look!” He was staring down the barrel of the gun. Brassey jumped over to join him, looked up through the right-hand spiral of rifling, and turned to face Horn. “We’re pointing directly at one of the number-one turret’s guns,” he said simply. “It must’ve trained left as we turned but stopped, for now, possibly while it’s crew recovers from whatever landed on top of them, and then jolted us.”

Horn wiped away more blood and nodded. “Then we better hurry before they shake it off.”

“We will shoot the other gun?” Lange asked, uncertain.

“Why not?” Horn looked through the range finder again, surprised he could see a little better. He was also surprised the ship was still turning as sharply as before and the shore of the peninsula was creeping into the right side of his field of view. “What the hell?” he murmured. The ram shoved a shell in the breech, then pushed four bags of powder after it. Just as their Grik slammed the breech shut, all power went out in the turret and near-total darkness descended.

“They shut us down,” Pokey said through the hatch to the other gunroom. Though still distinctive, his voice sounded amazingly human.

“And they no longer even rant at us,” Lange almost complained.

“I still shoot!” came their Grik’s triumphant shout. Just as it dawned on Horn that, like New York’s, Savoie’s primers had a backup percussion feature, the gun roared and recoiled inward with a blast louder than anything Horn ever heard, and a concussion that tossed him completely off his stool. There came another blast a few minutes later, possibly even worse, but Horn hardly noticed.





CHAPTER 25


////// USS Walker

The Grik battleship steaming a quarter mile in front of Savoie suddenly erupted like a volcano, blowing bits of itself, large and small, in all directions. To Matt, watching through his binoculars, it almost seemed as if Savoie herself . . . “Taar-git’s turnin’ to starboard!” Minnie cried.

“Bernie?” Matt called, knowing the target angle would change the torpedo solution.

“Just a few seconds, Skipper,” Bernie answered nervously. “One might still hit.”

The wait was agonizing. Walker was sprinting past Savoie now, directly astern, crossing her T at about two thousand yards. The fish weren’t much faster than she was and had farther to go; still, they should be there now. The salvo bell rang and bam! three shells converged on Savoie’s fantail. Just before they hit, two 13.4″ rifles fired back. Both projectiles splashed short and one exploded, throwing up a huge column of water. The other shell skipped and tumbled, clearly visible because of its size, regardless of how fast it came. Splash, splash, splash, the geysers got smaller, but closer—and drew a straight line at Walker. Unconsciously, Matt gripped the back of his chair. There was a terrible crash forward and the whole ship shook beneath his feet. Raaaa! Bam! Only two shells flew this time. The crew of the number one gun was scattered on the deck around it, trying to stand. “Damage report!”

“Waard-room reports, Skipper!” Minnie said, and Matt had a quick mental image of shredded wounded, and Pam Cross lying torn and bleeding on the deck. “Ever-body’s shook up,” Minnie said, to his relief, “but the shell must’a hit sideways, right at the waterline. Punched clear through both sides o’ the for-waard berthin’ spaces. We takin’ waater pretty faast.”

“Secure the watertight doors and rig pumps and hoses up through the fo’c’sle hatches.”

“Chief Jeek’s on it.”

“Left full rudder. Time to bring our starboard tubes to bear.” Matt glanced back at Savoie and saw her big guns fire again. She’d overcorrected and the shells rumbled high overhead. There was an impressive fire on her fantail now, the smoke slanting back at them, hopefully blocking the enemy’s sights. He’d already decided Savoie must be firing her main battery in local control, though he didn’t understand why. Splashes leaped up near the starboard bow, shore batteries this time. “Rudder amidships,” he called as his ship pointed right at the enemy, making her the smallest possible target. The number-one gun fired alone. “Stand by, starboard tubes!”