Carnifex

9/6/467 AC, BdL Dos Lindas, Xamar Coast

A kimono-wearing and tabi- and tatami-shod Kurita stared down at the display showing the deployment of the ships of the task force around the carrier. His normal serene smile was missing, which caused Fosa to infer that something with his deployment was drastically wrong. He asked as much.

Kurita answered. "Yes, I am concerned, Captain-san. No matter that the Ironsides Task Force may warn you of the approach of danger. I assure you that before they can act, they will have to get permission from the FSN or even the Executive Mansion in Hamilton. By the time they are allowed to, it will probably be too late."

"You are thinking of Farsian submarines, Commodore?" Fosa asked.

The Yamatan nodded, then said, "I would not expect them soon, certainly not until we begin to show some success. But I would expect them. It is better to be ready, always. And we must also consider the possibility of suicidal dive bombers."

Fosa had considered that threat when outfitting the ship. Indeed, the mix of air defense guns and missiles aboard the Dos Lindas was very powerful for that reason; that, and the possibility of suicidal boats. The task force had more light cannon and heavy machine gun power than the entire Ironsides Battle Group.

His own experience of naval warfare was . . . well, actually it wasn't. The Commodore, on the other hand, had more real experience than the entire crew of the Ironsides and all its escorts, combined. He'd listen to Kurita's advice, he decided.

"Order the escorts to increase dispersion from the carrier to twelve miles," Fosa told the radio watch.

Kurita's serene smile returned.

"How goes it with shipping aboard the patrol boats?" he asked.

"They're already on the deck of the transport," Fosa answered.

"It's going to be a big surprise, you know, when the Xamaris attempt to take another boat under the nose of the FSN and discover that there's someone else there not so constrained by progressive rules of engagement." Kurita gave a slight chuckle then glanced over at the meteorology chart.

"Yes, Commodore, the storm is coming along nicely. By this time

tomorrow we will be fighting it. The cargo ship carrying the patrol boats, the BdL Harpy Eagle, will broadcast that it is in trouble, but we shall have our own troubles. The mighty FSS Ironsides will ride to the rescue. When the storm clears, the Harpy will be nicely alongside the Ironsides with the boats hauled up and undercover of the flight deck. And then we wait, but not for long."

"Indeed, hopefully not for long, Captain-san. My . . . principles are growing anxious for some indicator of success."

* * *

The next day's morning sky was red and angry. By noon it had turned black and forbidding. By nightfall the smaller ships of the flotilla were fighting for their lives amidst thirty and forty foot waves that threatened to swamp them with each buffeting. Partly from the wind and waves, and partly to avoid ramming each other in the murk, the ships scattered.

Almost, almost, the Harpy was not pretending when it made the call to Ironsides that she was in trouble. By the time the FSN carrier arrived the Harpy's hull and decks were groaning under the strain, half the crew puking down below decks and most of the rest puking above.

Ironsides took a position into the wind from the smaller cargo ship, placing it in the lee and protecting it to some extent from the buffeting. Harpy's captain went below to bid farewell to the crews of the patrol boats. He knew it might be a last farewell.

* * *

Chief Warrant Officer Pedraz, commanding the Santisima Trinidad, looked out at the white-tipped, green-hued hell separating the two ships and thought, not for the first time, Mama never told me there'd be days like these.

If he hadn't been so brown Pedraz would have been white. Even as it was, he had turned relatively pale with fear. His kind of boat was never intended to sail in this kind of weather. And then . . . but he really didn't want to think about the risks of getting away from the Harpy and close to the Ironsides. Most especially did he not want to think about hooking up to and being hauled up by the huge supercarrier.

The Harpy's captain walked up and placed a hand on Pedraz's broad shoulder. "Are you ready, Chief?"

Exhaling, Pedraz nodded that he was.

"No time like the present then. Take advantage of the protection Ironsides is offering while we can."

Gulping, Pedraz nodded and shouted for the deck crew to raise and lower the Trinidad over the side. As the lines began to tighten, Pedraz scrambled aboard.

The warrant and the captain had gone over this at length. If there were no crew aboard, it would be long minutes before the Trinidad could get away from the potentially crushing hull of the Harpy. If the crew was aboard and something went wrong with the lowering, they might all be killed. Since mission had priority . . .

The wind dropped off radically as soon as the boat was sheltered in the Harpy's lee. Still, Harpy rocked abruptly, causing Trinidad's crew, more than once, to have to use long poles to dampen the inevitable thumping against the side of the hull. This problem actually got worse as the patrol boat moved closer to the sea's surface and the swings widened.

When we felt the water take control of his boat's hull, Pedraz looked up to signal the boatswain to cut the Trinidad loose.

No luck; the spray was so thick neither could see the other. Worse, radio was right out lest the traffic be intercepted by those watching from above. Fuck!

* * *

Up above, on deck aboard the Harpy, the boatswain cursed as he realized he'd lost sight of the Trinidad, even though it was scant yards below. The lines that led down to the boat went alternately tight and slack with the rocking of the larger ship.

In the water . . . but just that, thought the boatswain. That would have been fine except that the rocking of the ship wasn't a steady side to side motion. Instead, the ship was more or less corkscrewing, with a port lean and bow high followed by a starboard lean and bow low.

Okay . . . this is manageable. He ordered the men manning the davits to let the boat down another five feet. After that, while the lines still went almost tight in a not fully predictable sequence, there was enough slack for the boatswain to risk cutting the Trinidad loose.

Mission had priority. Without worrying about whether the Trinidad was safely on its way the boatswain led his small crew to the next set of davits to raise and lower over the side the other boat, the BdL San Agustin.

* * *

It was a few moments before Pedraz realized the ship had cut him loose. He had just enough time to silently thank the bosun before ordering crew to action stations. The motors started without trouble, thankfully, but the sharp waves—exacerbated by the nearness of the Harpy—dropped the troughs below the props at odd intervals. The meant the boat could only pull away from the rocking and veering—hence dangerous—ship in spurts as the props bit.

The driving got better but the waves got worse at the boat moved further from the ship. Once it was completely out of the ship's lee the waves became an awesome rollercoaster that made the ship's previous, nausea-inducing buffeting seem like love taps in comparison.

Gunning the engines to top a white-foamed crest, Pedraz thought, Show me a sailor who's not afraid of the sea and I'll show you an informal burial at sea waiting to happen.

The Trinidad's bow cleared the crest and hung suspended over the water. With resistance lessened and the engine at full throttle, the boat lurched forward until reaching the tipping point and . . .

"Yeehawww!" Pedraz exulted, now that he was free of the fear of being crushed by the Harpy. The bow plunged down like a rollercoaster car on steroids, the rollercoaster having plainly been designed by a lunatic on LSD.

The waves were steep and the troughs were deep, but the wavelength was long and the angle at least survivable. The boat continued its plunge for the bottom, the crew hanging on for dear life.

A seeming wall of water arose before Pedraz's eyes. He knew it was

probably half illusion—a result of the Trinidad's angle as it rode down the wave. Even so, his heart skipped a beat. He cut back on the throttle lest the boat's bow go straight into the water below.

Then he gunned it again as the boat reached the base of the trough and began the long climb up and over the next wave. No problem; Pedraz had the storm's measure and timing now, and his crew had faith in their little boat's skipper. With a lighter heart, he forced his way closer to the dimly sensed presence—given the thick, blinding spray one could hardly see it as more than a dim presence—of the Ironsides.