Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(91)
Lange shook his head. Despite his depression and frustrated rage, Horn’s enthusiasm and disdain for his own skin was lost on him. A loud roar bellowed from the antiaircraft gun they’d been discussing. A streak of sputtering light arced into the sky, followed by a flash and a dull boom. A couple other guns went off in the distance, but then the marching explosions got louder as well, as other planes apparently dropped big, new, ship-killing bombs, heavier than they’d ever seen. There weren’t as many of those as the others, but a fair percentage fell near Savoie, raising towering, luminescent waterspouts. It didn’t look like any hit, but there were some very near misses. Maybe they did some damage.
“Look!” Diania cried, pointing at the bay. A huge fire was building in the distance, roaring and roiling skyward from the vicinity of the carrier-conversion projects. And just as they gazed at that, another string of waterspouts marched relentlessly toward the one operational carrier. The last bomb in the cluster of six—probably all the big planes could carry—hit the carrier on the forward flight deck, sending smoldering debris and shattered timbers far and wide.
“Yes!” Horn and Sandra chorused, and Horn, beside himself with excitement, snatched up Diania and spun her around. The bay reverberated with the thunder of dozens of big guns now, and Savoie, her fantail still aflame, spat dazzling tracers at the sky. The darkness overhead snapped and flashed with exploding shells, though no one could tell if they were coming close or even how the gunners could tell how high the bombers were. Still, one shot at least must’ve gotten lucky, because a bright red-orange flare unexpectedly scorched the sky. It carried on for some distance, curving slowly away to the west, then south, before suddenly growing much more intense—and shattering into a spray of flashing smears of fire that tumbled to the sea like burning confetti.
“Damn!” Horn muttered, setting Diania down. “They got one.”
“But out of how many? At least ten, maybe a dozen,” Sandra said, her tone more sober but still excited.
“I think maybe sixteen, seventeen,” Ruffy said. “They go now.” Sandra didn’t know how he could tell. The ack-ack was still firing wildly, the night still flashing with lurid thunderclaps as the fused shells burst. But the bombs had stopped falling. They looked back at the bay.
Kurokawa’s new carriers were engulfed in flames, the tinder-dry timbers left baking beneath the equatorial sun burning too fast and furiously for anything to quench. And the flames were eating the facilities around them as well. A great crane, its legs quickly withering, fell across the raging inferno amid an explosion of swirling red sparks. Quite a few other ships, cruisers mostly, had gotten underway. They’d dodged the bombs and some were moving toward the burning ships, probably to bring their hoses to bear. It was no use. Both the conversions were clearly doomed—and Kurokawa wouldn’t like that at all. Perhaps worse, his sole surviving carrier had taken a hit as well. A mall flickering fire still marked her forward flight deck, but it was shrouded with steam as hoses beat it down and it looked like her crew had it under control. Still, it might be a while before she could operate aircraft. That was something.
The same was true for Savoie. None of the bombs had pierced the armor beneath her wooden deck, and all the planks could burn entirely away and it wouldn’t hinder her combat power. Certainly not her main armament. In any event, she seemed to have her fire under control as well, and they were too far away to see if the near misses had any effect; whether her bilge pumps were discharging more water than usual. They all remained excited, however. A serious blow had been struck. Yet even as they celebrated, they couldn’t help wonder what the cost would be to them. Within an hour, they got their first answer.
A group of about twenty Japanese appeared on the earthen bridge, talking loudly among themselves. Some were in uniform, while others wore the simple coveralls of overseers in the shipyards and elsewhere. A few looked hurt or scorched by fire, and several wore bandages. None seemed happy. The two Grik guards confronted them, their muskets at the ready, bayonets fixed. In addition to keeping the prisoners confined, they apparently had orders to prevent something like this. The crowd hesitated, but then there was a shot and a Grik fell back and splashed in the moat. Almost instantly, the flashies swarmed and the guard screeched in agony. The other Grik lowered his bayonet and charged forward, only to be hacked down by several men with swords. Together, bolder and committed, the men rushed forward and slammed the gate aside.
“Get back!” Gunny Horn snapped at Sandra and Diania, stepping in front of them, immediately joined by Ruffy, Eddy, and Becher Lange. Even Adar moved slowly into the line, defying the intruders, who suddenly paused again. Several had rifles and they pointed them at the prisoners. Ignoring Horn’s command, the two women joined him, one on either side. None held any kind of weapon, but Sandra had one hand behind her, fumbling at her waistband beneath the ragged, untucked shirt. One of the men yelled something at them, then exchanged his rifle for a heavy wooden staff. He pointed it at the women and yelled something else, glaring at Horn. “Please step back, ladies,” Horn ground out through clenched teeth. “I think he wants to make this man-to-man.”
“Animal to unarmed man, you mean,” Sandra hissed. She pointed at the staff. “Why don’t you give him one of those? Are you afraid to face a half-starved, helpless prisoner? Are you that big a coward?”
Maybe the Japanese sailor understood a little English, or maybe the meaning of her tone was universal. Either way, he grunted and snapped something at a comrade. An instant later, another staff sailed through the air and landed in the sand at Horn’s feet. The Japanese sailor confidently twirled his like a propeller and took a step forward. “Whatever happens . . .” Horn said to the others, stooping for the staff. He never got a chance to finish. The sailor raced forward and slammed his weapon down on Horn’s shoulder. Obviously expecting it, Horn rolled with the blow and came up, the heavy staff in hand. He twirled it himself, experimentally, grinning at his adversary. “You know, I was always pretty good with one of these, you dumb-ass Jap,” he said. He spun it again, but then, in the blink of an eye, stopped the rotation and slammed the hardened end into the other man’s belly. He quickly recovered to follow the blow with an overhand swing, but that was as far as he got before the other Japanese, now behind him, surged forward and grabbed his arms. The first man, still gasping, viciously rammed his own staff into Horn’s belly, making him double over in pain. Then he started beating Horn as hard as he could about the head and shoulders. Sandra’s hand found the grip of the Colt, and she knew everyone around her was tensing to surge forward.