Blood In the Water (47 page)

Mikawa nodded, but wondered why his lord confided in him. He was clearly pleased by the results of the day and perhaps just needed someone to express that pleasure to, to validate his impressions, his perception of the strategic situation. So far, Mikawa had to admit that Kurokawa's
evaluation seemed plausible. Why did that surprise him? Like nearly every Japanese survivor of
Amagi
, Mikawa accepted that his lord was mad. But the man was also amazingly successful at surviving. He and those he led had endured their banishment to this twisted, dangerous world, an unwholesome association with the savage Grik, and setback after setback at the hands of the Grand Alliance. Any one of those things might have destroyed them. Yet, in a way, they'd thrived. Zanzibar—secured for them by Kurokawa—was a true haven, and their productivity there, now that they were all assembled once more with a virtually unlimited labor supply, was nothing short of phenomenal. They still didn't have any women, and that was a source of a growing, frustrated near-madness for all their people, but Kurokawa assured them that, with victory, even that want would be met. Lost
Amagi
's remaining crew still feared Kurokawa—Mikawa freely admitted
he
did, to himself—but they finally
believed
in him now. So, mad or not, General of the Sea Hisashi Kurokawa was also a genius of some sort, and his subjects would follow him to the death.

“So . . . what now, Lord?” Mikawa managed somewhat nervously, fearing Kurokawa might suddenly regret his openness or resent the presumption of a question.

“The fleet will steam north for the remainder of the day in case the enemy somehow manages to pursue us, or send a long-range aircraft to spy. After dark, we will shape a course to return to Zanzibar to rebuild our fleet. It is time for First General Esshk to do his part.”

*

Ben Mallory's bad day wasn't over yet. It was easy enough to find the scene of the morning attack on TF Alden because of the dense columns of smoke marking the place.

“TF Alden, TF Alden, this is Flashy Lead,” he called on the guard frequency, abruptly sure that “TF Alden” had been a stupid code name for the task force. They knew the enemy probably had spies, and were certainly listening to their voice transmissions. The mere name “TF Alden” would've told them all they needed to know about the composition and purpose of the force they'd attacked. He blinked. They'd been so complacent, expecting always to keep their tech edge over the Grik, that even as they knew things were changing, it was taking time to adjust. They had to
think that through and recognize that even the little things, like stupidly descriptive task force names, couldn't slide anymore.

“TF Alden, this is Flashy Lead,” he repeated glumly. “Flashy Flight is approaching you from a bearing of, ah, two, zero, zero, relative, two thousand feet, over. Pass the word that we're coming in. I imagine there are a lot of itchy trigger fingers down there.”

“Roger, Flaashy Lead. This is
Saak-Fas
,” came a tired-sounding Lemurian voice. “We are the northern picket. We see you and will repeat your warning.”

“Thanks,
Saak-Fas
,” Ben said, focusing on the sailing steam DD coming up below. Then, almost reluctantly, he lifted his gaze. For the first time the enormity of the disaster finally broke through his defensive shell when he grasped that the distant smoke had resolved itself into a terrible spread of scattered, burning hulks. Most had undamaged ships in attendance, either helping fight their fires with hoses or carefully taking off survivors. The latter was always a perilous task. It was instinctively ingrained in everyone on this world that the sea teemed with voracious creatures of all sizes, but just as the old saw, based on coincidence or not, that “land battles bring rain” was reemerging here, there was direct proof for the new axiom that “sea battles bring sea monsters.” Fortunately, as the war raged on, lifesaving techniques and equipment had improved. Allied ships carried more boats and rafts than in the past, and ship-to-ship rescue drills were carried out in all weather. Ben thought the survival rate of the crews on all but the most shattered ships would likely be quite high, but many had been horribly mauled. Several of the oilers had erupted in flames so quickly and completely that he doubted anyone could've lived. A lot of boats had escaped
Andamaan
, probably saving most of the troops aboard, since their duty in the event of battle had been to assemble on the catwalks beneath the casemate adjacent to the boats. Not only did that keep them out from underfoot when
Andamaan
's crew was fighting their ship, it gave them the best chance to survive, to fight their kind of battle. But
Andamaan
sank so quickly, most of her crew had probably perished.

The same might be said for
Baalkpan Bay
, Ben thought grimly as his flight finally approached and circled the heavily listing inferno. She still floated, burning from end to end, and no one could survive aboard her now. He noted with some relief that there was nobody left in the boats
that eddied aimlessly around her corpse, and he hoped that meant most of her people had been saved. He also saw, however, that there were no other ships alongside, fighting her fires.
They've given up,
he realized sickly.
Of course they have. She's still got a lot of ordnance in her magazines. Just a matter of time before the fire reaches them, unless . . .
Even as he watched, four puffs of smoke swept aft, one by one, from the gray steel destroyer steaming slowly past
Baalkpan Bay
, about five hundred yards away. Splashes rose alongside her as the torpedoes fell into the sea. “My God,” he mumbled, a huge lump rising in his throat, his heart going out to Cablass-Rag-Laan on
Geran-Eras
. He understood the necessity of what the Lemurian destroyer skipper had just done, but didn't know if he could've done it himself. Then his eyes narrowed, and he quickly scanned the area, almost frantic. “My God!” he said again, more forcefully. “That's not
Geran-Eras
!”

The new destroyer below was scarred by at least two bomb hits. It didn't look like the relatively light weapons had penetrated her decks, thank God, but they'd played hell above them. There was a jumble of debris just aft of her fourth funnel, and the fresh paint was scorched and blackened there and on her fo'c'sle. Damaged or not, she could still fight, and her guns were clear and manned despite the fact that her decks were otherwise literally packed with Lemurian troops and sailors. But what made him so sure she wasn't
Geran-Eras
, DD-23, was that she steamed easily, wasn't low by the stern, and wore the wrong number on her bows.
This
destroyer was DD-21:
James Ellis
. She must've sprinted back as soon as Ben reported that the enemy was retiring. But if she was here, all alone, that meant her sister must've gone down.

Just then, the first high waterspout jutted from the sea alongside
Baalkpan Bay
. Another followed, then another. Ultimately, all four torpedoes hit the stricken ship and exploded, the falling water snatching at the flames amid a boiling plume of steam. The great carrier, the first of her class and only the second carrier ever purpose-built on this world, rolled quickly on her side and began to settle. Flames roared anew from the hangar deck bays, but steam and rising water rapidly choked them out. The last Ben Mallory saw of
Baalkpan Bay
, proud veteran of Second Madras, was her death-stilled port-side screw and a hint of green from the copper sheathing that covered her wooden hull. Then she was gone. He blinked at the tears that suddenly hazed his vision. They came for
Baalkpan Bay
, of course, but also for
Geran-Eras
,
Andamaan
, and all the other ships and people they'd lost that day whose names he didn't even know. They came for the friends and planes he'd lost, all still technically under his command as chief of the Army and Naval Air Corps.
What a laugh!
he thought
. Jumbo has a better claim to that. I haven't been involved on an organizational level in a year!

That's when it finally dawned on him how foolish and selfish he'd been. He'd wanted back in the fight and even dabbled in it from time to time, but hadn't really been
in
it up to his eyes, like Tikker, Mark Leedom, or even Orrin Reddy out in the east against the Doms, since the old PBY fell apart around him. He'd moaned and groaned about how “tied” he'd been to his “personal” squadron of “hangar queens.” Now half of what remained of it was damaged or destroyed, possibly even including its support personnel—people like Cecil Dixon—who were probably more valuable than the planes! That's when the most bitter tears of all filled his eyes, tears for
himself
—for
his
loss and
his
bitter frustration at not being able to prove his squadron worthy of all the care, effort, and expectations lavished on it by somehow protecting TF Alden in spite of everything. Worse, it—
he
—hadn't even been able to finish the last enemy carrier and taste a full measure of revenge for . . . anything. It had been a terrible day indeed.

The last four airborne P-40Es of the 3rd (Army) Pursuit Squadron approached Mahe Island, largest of the Seychelles, at around 1500 hours. Mahe was a hilly, rocky thing, shaped like a crumpled trumpet, and wouldn't have been anyone's first choice for a place to put an airstrip if the Grik hadn't already cleared a diagonal crease through the center of the island for a zeppelin field. At last report, after just a few weeks of work and great effort, the field still wasn't ready for aircraft operations, but there was no place else to go. Ben's flight might still make Grik City on the north coast of Madagascar, but they'd be cutting it way too close for comfort. Still, he considered the option anew when they flew down over the ragged cut in the Mahe jungle.

“At least some of
Baalkpan Bay
's air wing made it,” Soupy called over the radio as they pulled up after their look. Ben was actually amazed to see so many of the lost carrier's planes. And a number of Nancys floated among the engineer's support ships anchored near a string of sunken, half-finished Grik dreadnaughts in the little harbor northeast of the
strip. Those dreadnaughts—and others—had been placed at a couple of islands in the Seychelles as bait for a trap that very nearly worked. They'd been sunk to prevent their reclamation by the Grik before the decision was made to occupy Mahe.

“It looks like several cracked up, though,” Ben warned. “There were some wrecks dragged off to the side. The strip looks clear but awful damn lumpy. Anybody see the Five and Seven ships?”

“I saw one of 'em,” Shirley reported. “Close in the trees. The other's prob'ly under 'em.”

“Flashy Lead, Flashy Lead, this is Flashy Five,” came Conrad Diebel's voice, obviously speaking from his cockpit. “The engineers attached to the Austraal Marine regiment assigned here, as well as the pilots already down, have cleared the field as well as possible. They've been expecting you. Circle back around and land from the same direction that you approached. The wind is out of the west, southwest.” He paused. “Bring them down one at a time and keep to the very center of the strip. It is smoothest there.”

“Roger, Flashy Five,” Ben replied. “Flashy Flight, I'll set down first. The rest of you, watch how it goes. If everything's okay, do exactly what I did. If not . . .” He gave his head a little shake. “Try to adjust accordingly.” He curved around to the south, back over the hills.
They're almost mountains,
he thought,
covered with jungle to the very tops. It's actually kind of a pretty place,
he unexpectedly reflected,
the way the water all around changes color at random, and there are a lot of different greens in the trees
. Colorful flying creatures swooped and swirled among them. Coming back around, reducing his throttle and beginning his descent, he saw the ships and Nancys again.
Decent little harbor, with a good channel entrance,
he observed. The variations in water color clearly defined the shallows from above. With a sudden lift, he saw two of the big Clippers squatting in the water near an APD.
Jumbo made it,
he realized thankfully,
and so did the other one, probably sucking fumes
. They were going to need those big planes now more than ever.

Lining up on the gash in the jungle, he lowered his landing gear and flaps and unlatched his canopy. Wind buffeted him, and the canopy clattered as his airspeed dropped. The strip opened before him as he cleared the final trees and saw that Conrad hadn't been kidding. The ground was clear of rocks and debris, but was very wavy. The center did
look best, and he quickly chose what looked like the longest stretch of level ground. He slid the canopy all the way back and eased his plane down. The landing gear rumbled and shuddered as he cut the throttle, and he bounced and swayed for several moments until the tailwheel touched. It got even noisier then, and the level stretch seemed to end abruptly. Suddenly the plane was pitching and rolling like a ship in a storm. Very carefully, with gentle taps, he started applying his brakes.

Gray dust he hadn't seen until then gushed up around him when he finally came to a near stop. Looking around, he saw the P-40 Soupy spotted from the air, separate from an unkempt line of ten or eleven P-1Cs, partially covered by low-hanging, sweeping branches. He kept looking but saw only the one Warhawk. With a jolt of concern, he turned his ship and gunned the engine. “Flashy Flight, this is Flashy Lead. It's kind of rough at the end of the strip, so set 'em down as soon as you clear the trees, and watch your brakes.” He listened until each pilot responded, then bounced and rumbled over near the tree line. Quite a few 'Cats were milling there, and he saw Conrad Diebel step down from his plane. Pulling up close to the other P-40, Ben spun his around and cut the engine. Even as he unstrapped his harness and the prop wound down, Diebel climbed up on the wing beside him.