Taylor Anderson - Iron Gray Sea

The seconds ticked by, the only sounds from the straining ship and the sea.

“Lookout reports Jaap destroyer open fire!” Minnie cried.

“That’s the option I kind of figured they’d take,” Matt said resignedly. “Time to show them they don’t have any.”

“Twin waterspouts, four hundred tai- yards off port bow!” Minnie reported. They were invisible from the pilothouse.

Matt looked at Sandra. She’d eased away from him, toward the chart table, as if trying to remain unnoticed. “Your station is in the wardroom, I believe,” he said gently. She slashed a nod, but took a step closer.

“We’ll lick them, won’t we?” she asked. She couldn’t help it.

Matt nodded confidently. “They’re newer, bigger, quicker, and their guns are heavier, but we can put just as much iron on target.” The bridge watch growled agreement. “Besides”-he grinned and patted his chair-“we’re the good guys, and we’ve got Walker. We can’t lose.”

Sandra smiled, but the expression was brittle. “Be… careful,” she mouthed, but visibly cursed herself. There I go again, she thought. What a stupid thing to say! She firmed up. “So long, Captain Reddy. I’ll see you after the fight!” Without another word, she left the bridge.

“Hoist the battle flag,” Matt ordered. “All ahead full! Come right ten degrees! Have Mr. Palmer transmit to all stations that we are engaging the enemy at thirteen twenty-one hours. Mr. Kutas, provide him with our current position, if you please.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Norm replied.

Matt looked through the water-smeared windows. He thought he could just see a small, dark, blurry shape far away on the heaving sea. “Inform Mr. Campeti to commence firing the main battery-at the tanker!”

Spanky was soaking wet, but he had to admit he had an amazing view. The ship had never gone into action, nor had he been on the auxiliary conn atop the aft deckhouse with the sea running quite this high. Everything was moving, and he could see it all. The sea was roiling, shifting, every second, and a light rain swirled in all directions, whipped and tattered by the wind. Helmeted heads bobbed and moved all over the ship, in the gun tubs of the twenty-fives, along the deck below as Jeek’s division prepped the Nancy to go over the side, and up on the amidships gun platform. Some of the helmets were gray and others polished bronze, but they all had the same distinctive doughboy shape. The slightest wisps of smoke darted from the tops of three funnels and almost instantly vanished. Farther forward, he saw the large battle flag, a replica of the ruined flag that flew over Walker at the Battle of Baalkpan, with her major actions embroidered on the stripes, lurch up the foremast halyard and stand out to leeward.

The greatest motion of all seemed to come from Walker herself, though Spanky knew that was an illusion. He was almost as far aft on the old ship as you could get, and the stern swooped up and down like an elevator gone amok as she pitched. Sometimes the stern rose so high that the screws flailed at the sea and then dropped so low he thought the waves would swallow him up. Even on the upswing, he never personally saw the target, and again he was struck by the miracle of modern naval gunnery. He knew as much about the mechanical fire-control computer as Campeti did-it was just a complicated machine, after all. Sonny was better with ballistics and trajectories and all the math and stuff, but intellectually Spanky understood how the gun director would be nearly as efficient now as when the sea was at rest. In his gut, however, he couldn’t imagine how they could even hit the sea on purpose right now.

The worst illusion-he hoped it was one-was the way the hull itself seemed to twist and squirm in the foam that gushed alongside. He knew Walker was working hard, but she couldn’t be doing all that. Could she? He looked to his right. Chief Quartermaster Paddy Rosen had joined him; Norm was on the bridge. Norman Kutas might be first lieutenant now, but he’d been at Walker ’s helm through almost every fight. That’s where he belonged. Back here, Spanky had a good backup crew. Walker ’s bench got deeper all the time, but he, Paddy, and several ’Cats were just hanging around (and hanging on) for now. He took the sodden tobacco pouch from his pocket and crammed a handful of the yellowish leaves in his mouth, then tried to look confident-and hoped to God they wouldn’t be needed to conn the ship. The brand-new Nancy splashed into the sea alongside, landing awkwardly, upside down. The starboard propeller guard brushed it aside, and it swirled away aft. A single waterspout suddenly jetted skyward a good distance to port.

“You guys better move!” cried Pack Rat. The Lemurian gunner’s mate was gun captain on number four, right behind the aft conn, and the muzzle of the Japanese 4.7-incher was cranked around almost even with the signals station on the forward port side of the platform. The gun was near the maximum elevation of Walker ’s other guns, but the muzzle blast would be intense.

“Let’s go!” Spanky ordered his companions, and they hurried starboard aft.

“Pointers matched! On target!” Pack Rat shouted to his talker.

“Fire!” the talker yelled back. The ’Cat on the left seat stabbed down on the foot trigger, and nothing happened at once. Then, for an instant, Walker was level enough for the gyro to complete the firing circuit, and guns one, two, and four roared.

“Up two hundred, right ten degrees!” Sonny Campeti shouted. The new tracers were more orange than red, but he could see them-two had actually passed uncomfortably close to his left-and they converged beautifully. He’d even seen the reasonably tight group of splashes through his binoculars. The rain was tapering off, but Walker still didn’t have a range finder. Her old one had been a piece of junk before it was shot to pieces, and nothing had been built to replace it. Campeti was very good at estimating ranges, however, almost as good at Greg Garrett. That kid’s an artist, Campeti thought. “Match pointers!” he yelled.

Three salvos had arced away toward the distant tanker when Palmer rang the bridge. “Captain speaking,” Matt said when the phone was handed to him.

“Skipper!” came Ed Palmer’s excited voice. “I got Japs jabbering like mad, and somebody with a little English is begging us to stop shooting!” The ship shook as another three-gun salvo flashed. Splashes rose near Walker again, but off to starboard this time.

“Well who the hell is it? The tin can is shooting at us, and we haven’t even started on her yet. Must be the tanker.”

“I think so, Captain. I can barely understand-”

The horizon flashed pinkish red through the wet windows, and a yellow-white glare ensued. There were cheers on the bridge and Matt even heard yelling from the number one gun down on the fo’c’sle. Stites’s voice was particularly clear.

“Ah…” said Palmer. “The hollering just quit.”

“Guess it was the tanker,” Matt said simply. “Thanks for the report, Mr. Palmer. Carry on.” He handed the phone back. “Have Mr. Campeti target the enemy destroyer,” he told Minnie, and stepped out on the port bridgewing. Hidoiame was clear in his binoculars now, steaming almost directly at them. She’s a strange-looking duck, he thought. Her bow curved up and forward like a clipper ship, and her superstructure was high and blocky. So far, only her forward two guns would bear, and they were enclosed within a large, odd-looking turret on her fo’c’sle. As he watched, the two guns flashed.

“Captain, it’s Palmer again!”

Matt stepped back inside and took the phone.

“Skipper? I… I got the Jap destroyer captain on the horn. He’s asking to talk to you!”