Taylor Anderson - Into the Storm

“Damage report!”

The machine guns stuttered to a stop as the planes flew out of range.

“Just some scratches in the boot topping.”

“How about the other ships?” Matt asked, looking for himself. They seemed okay as each emerged from the spray of bomb splashes.

The squall was closer. Still at flank speed, Walker strained with every aged fiber to reach the camouflaging shroud of the torrent ahead. To starboard, Mahan labored to keep up. Farther away, her interval doubled since the loss of Encounter, Pope blurred as she dove into the opaque wall of rain.

The bombers were re-forming and Matt urged his ship forward as she stretched her tired legs. Suddenly the bow disappeared as it parted the edge of the storm, and within seconds the windows were blanked out and a heavy drumming sound came from the deck above. Water coursed onto the open quarterdeck behind them, and small smiles of relief formed on several faces.

“Secure from flank, all ahead two-thirds. Come left ten degrees. The Japs can’t see us, but neither can our sisters. Let’s put some space between us.”

“Jesus,” muttered Sandison, and dabbed sweat from his face with his sleeve.

Lieutenant Garrett, along with the rest of the fire-control team, was soaked to the bone and water poured off his helmet, obscuring his view. No one had any idea where their consorts were. They’d altered course several times to accomplish the dual necessity of staying within the squall and continuing in a general direction away from the enemy. Garrett and his division did their best, straining their eyes to spot another ship or warn about upcoming “light” spots, but realistically they would probably run into one of their sisters before they saw her in time to turn. It was growing lighter ahead, however, and there were no “dark” areas to advise the bridge to steer for. He huddled over the speaking tube when he raised the cover to prevent too much water from pouring in.

“Bridge. We’re breaking out of the squall.”

With almost the same suddenness that they’d entered it, they drove out of the squall and into the afternoon sunshine. They all blinked their eyes against the glare, and the water on the decks and in their clothes began to steam. Then, less than five hundred yards to port, Mahan emerged and seemed to shake herself off like a wet dog as she increased speed. Men immediately scanned for enemies.

“Oh, my God, Skipper! Look!” shouted Sandison. The Bosun swore and Matt shouldered in beside him on the starboard bridgewing. He felt like his heart had stopped. There, about four miles off the starboard beam, Pope was enduring her final agony. She wallowed helplessly, low by the stern, while aircraft swirled like vultures in the sky above. Massive waterspouts rose around her as the spotting planes summoned the cruiser’s fire upon their carrion.

“Skipper! Can’t we… I mean, is there…?” Young Reynolds clamped his mouth shut, realizing the pointlessness of his appeal. Then he looked at his captain’s face and was shocked by the twisted, desperate rage upon it. With an audible animal growl, Captain Reddy spun back into the pilothouse. Ahead, about seven miles away, another squall brewed. It was huge, and darker than the last one, almost green, and it blotted out much of the horizon. For some reason, it seemed to radiate an aura of threat nearly as intense as the force that pursued them so relentlessly.

“Make for that squall!” ordered Matt in a tone none of the men had ever heard him use. It was the voice of command, but with an inflection of perfect hatred. “Signal Mahan. We’ll keep this interval in case we have to maneuver. Helm, ahead flank!”

Another squall, lighter, was a little to the left of the one they were heading for. It was dissipating rapidly, though, as if the first was somehow draining it, sucking its very force. As it diminished, two dark forms took shape.

“Holy Mary,” muttered Gray, crossing himself unconsciously.

Before them, racing to prevent their escape into the looming rainstorm, were yet another destroyer and a massive capital ship. There was a collective gasp.

After a moment spent studying the apparition through his binoculars, Matt spoke. “That, gentlemen, is Amagi.” His voice was harsh but matter-of-fact. “She’s a battle cruiser. Not quite a battleship, but way heavier than a cruiser. I know it’s her”-he smiled ironically, but his expression was hard-“because she’s the only one they have left. Built in the twenties, so she’s almost as old as we are”-he snorted- “but they’ve spent money on her since. Major rebuild a few years ago. Anyway, I remember her because I was always impressed by how fast the Japs could make so much metal move.” He sighed. “I guess it’s fitting, after everything else, she should show up here. They really don’t want us to get away.”

He turned and spoke to Riggs in a voice that was white-hot steel. “Signal Mahan to prepare for a torpedo attack with port tubes. Mr. Sandison, speak to your division.” He crossed his arms over his chest and his hands clenched into fists. “We can’t go around her and we can’t turn back. That leaves only one choice.”

Gray nodded with grim acceptance.

“Yes, sir, we’ll have to go right through the son of a bitch.”

Blowers roaring, haggard destroyermen performing their duties in an exhausted fugue, the two battered, venerable old ladies slightly altered course and together began their final charge. Matt noticed that even Captain Kaufman was on the foredeck now, hauling shells. Lieutenant Mallory and two ratings scurried up the ladder behind, each festooned with belts of. 30-cal. It was clear to everyone that getting past the two ships ahead and disappearing into the strange, ominous squall was their only hope. It was equally clear that it was impossible.

Ahead waited Amagi: 46,000 tons of cemented armor plate. As they watched, she began a leisurely turn to present her full broadside of ten 10-inch guns. Her secondary battery of 4.7-inch and 5.5-inch guns was entirely superfluous. The sleek new destroyer at her side was all but forgotten despite her guns and deadly “Long Lance” torpedoes. The additionalthreat she represented was almost laughably insignificant under the circumstances. She could have taken them by herself.

The shriek and splash of incoming shells proved the cruisers behind hadn’t forgotten them either, and the growing drone of propellers indicated the bombers had seen them too.

“Looks like every Jap in the Java Sea’s in a race to sink us,” mumbled Gray.

Five miles away, Amagi opened fire. She pulsed with flame from one end to the other as she salvoed her big guns. Seconds later, the rattling roar of ten-inch shells thundered toward them. They sounded deeper than the eights, Matt reflected absently. Then he stepped into hell.

The first salvo fell short, but it threw up a wall of spray that drenched Greg Garrett and his team and probably soaked Lieutenant Rogers way up in the crow’s nest. Rogers had fallen silent, and Garrett tried to adjust the fire of the number one and three guns, but he couldn’t bloody see. Walker pierced the spume raised by Amagi’s main guns, but the splashes from the secondaries and the cruisers behind were uninterrupted. He thought of all the times he’d shot turtles in the stock tank behind his grandmother’s house-now he knew how they must have felt. There was a loud bang behind him and he twisted to see chaos on the amidships deckhouse.

A roar overhead made him turn to see a dive bomber pull up and blow by, its wingtip a dozen yards from the mast. An enormous explosion convulsed the sea to port and bomb fragments whined off the rail and the range finder. Tracers rose to meet the plane and something fell off it. Another mighty salvo rumbled in, the splashes seeming to concentrate on Mahan. He half expected to see a twisted wreck as the spray fell away, but somehow she staggered out of the trough and shook herself off. Water sluiced from her. Her aft deckhouse was wrecked, and her number four funnel lay on a crushed lifeboat davit. The searchlight tower had fallen as well.