Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(157)
Two hatches dropped open under the number-two turret and battered, bloody men and Khonashi half climbed, half fell into the shaded daylight below. There they sat, panting in what seemed luxuriously cool air. They hadn’t realized how hot it had become in the turret, and the day, already past 80 degrees, felt like half that in comparison. At present, they were alone and Stuart Brassey roused himself first, examining Becher Lange while Gunny Horn watched. The German sailor was in bad shape. Already weakened by captivity, the long night march, and now a serious wound as well, Horn thought he’d probably had it. Their solitude lasted only a few moments before Grik started running past, heading forward.
“What the hell?” Horn mumbled. His lips were broken and he still felt dazed from . . . whatever happened in the turret. He remembered trying to shoot at one of the forward guns, but not much after that. The deck was swarming with running shapes; Grik, for the most part, but Japanese as well, dashing for the fo’c’sle. None paid them any heed and some just leaped over the side, possibly hoping the surf would break their fall and the flasher fish had either retreated from the disturbance of the grounding or already abandoned the shallows for their deeper daylight haunts. Others, more thoughtful, tried to secure lines to stanchions and lower themselves down. Many were pushed over by the crush. Their two remaining Grik—the other was killed when he fell down in the gun pit on his head—scrambled to their feet to join the rest, but Pokey shouted at them. They paused and jabbered back. Pokey spoke again and they seemed to relax slightly. “What was that about?” Horn asked Pokey. Instead of answering, Pokey spoke to Brassey in Khonashi, which the boy captain translated.
“The Grik want off because they expect the ship to sink. They’ve learned to fear torpedoes and no Grik ship can survive them.” He pointed at the last Grik BB rolling on its side, still barely a mile away, and Horn remembered seeing Ellie’s torpedoes hit her. “That only adds to their panic.”
That doesn’t explain the Japs in the mix, Horn thought. They know better. Our torpedoes aren’t that powerful, and even disabled, Savoie could—probably—soak up several more. Besides, she’s aground and can’t sink even if she fills.
What Horn couldn’t know was that a tipping point had been reached. As far as the Japanese were concerned, Savoie wasn’t their ship, their home. She was a French League ship, filled with Grik. She flew their flag, but even that now symbolized more what they’d lost than what they’d accomplished. The Emperor wasn’t on this world, and Kurokawa—whose mad, single-minded pursuit of personal power and revenge had only led them to misery and grief—could never replace him. The closest thing to home they had was the island they were touching; that they’d been returned to as if fate had twisted the great ship’s rudder. Few knew why they were fighting anymore, but if they must keep on, their home was a better place to die than the foreign ship that had just become a helpless target.
Adding to this perception was the hit in the flank that had opened an engine room and shorted a distribution panel, cutting electricity to half the ship. A well-trained crew would’ve restored power in moments, but Savoie didn’t have one of those. Even cooler heads found themselves in the dark, unable to fight the vengeful old destroyer rushing toward them, already spitting a torrent of machine-gun fire and possibly preparing more torpedoes. That was the final straw that sent most of the Japanese running for the fo’c’sle. Crews around the secondaries were swept down by the grounding and the bullets. Even if their captains returned to their posts, they found themselves with crews that were dead, wounded, or already fled. They fled too, for the bow—and land.
“Well, what did Pokey say to make them stay?” Horn asked.
Brassey shrugged. “He told them the ship won’t sink. Other than that, he said they’re on our side now, and we’re winning.”
“Hmm. I hope he’s right. How’s Lange?”
Brassey’s reply was cut off by the clatter of bullets striking the armored gunhouse in front of them, then a whole flurry of slugs slashing into the Grik and men in their growing hundreds, bunching together on the fo’c’sle.
“I suggest we move to better cover, more to starboard,” Lange said, speaking for the first time since they fell from the turret. “Actually,” he added, standing with great effort, “I have a better idea.” Awkwardly, he pulled the pistol from his waistband and looked at it. Only then, somewhat surprised, did Horn remember they were armed. Lange continued. “Now, in the confusion, strikes me as an excellent time to find Contre-Amiral Laborde. What do you think? I suspect under the circumstances—if we’re not accidentally shot by our friends, of course—we might move fairly freely.”
Horn’s brows furrowed. “Get Laborde. Okay, I’m game. What the hell? But are you up to it? I’m not sure I am, and I haven’t had my arm half chewed off.”
“I will manage that, if nothing more,” Lange said, his pale face tightening in determination. “I have a debt to settle.”
? ? ?
The throng on Savoie’s fo’c’sle made an easy target, and Walker’s machine guns were mowing them down. Panicked before, even the steadiest Grik and most experienced Japanese sailors threw themselves over the side. Fortunately, there actually weren’t many flashies in the water, and those who weren’t drowned or killed by the fall—or when someone else landed on them—finally dragged themselves to the beach. Most were surprised how many they were. But that left few to defend Savoie when Walker surged in from astern, machine guns still clattering, and disgorged her boarders onto the battleship’s fantail. With her flooding aft and her bow aground, they actually had to jump down onto the huge ship’s charred deck. A surge of water had washed over the fire, and the planks only steamed and smoldered wetly now.