Iron Gray Sea

CHAPTER 27

USS Walker

South China Sea

1240

There was no question about it; that was Hidoiame and her tanker up ahead-unless there was more than one Kagero-class destroyer and accompanying oiler loose in these seas. I don’t even want to think about that, Matt told himself. Both ships were clearly visible to the crow’s-nest lookout when Walker climbed atop the taller swells. All the lookouts had been studying the silhouette drawings they’d been given, and the keen-eyed watcher in the uncomfortable steel bucket high on the foremast was positive.

“I guess she hasn’t got radar after all,” Matt mumbled. “That, or maybe Okada knocked it out.” He’d been worried about radar. No Japanese ships had it when they’d met before, but it existed. The cruiser USS Boise had it-and took it with her when she was damaged and ordered out of the area, leaving no other radar in the entire Asiatic Fleet either. Aircraft had been the only way to spot distant targets-and only the Japanese had aircraft by then. Here, these Japanese had no aircraft, but those at Matt’s disposal couldn’t fly in this weather. Time had passed “back home,” however, and who knew what kind of ugly surprises Hidoiame concealed?

“What makes you so sure, Skipper?”

“No reaction yet. With radar, they might’ve just avoided us.”

“I don’t think so, Skipper,” Gray said. “Radar can’t be much good in this sea, and now we’ve spotted ’em, that tanker damn sure can’t avoid us.”

Matt nodded. “I guess you’re right. Then the question now is, Do they see us yet, radar or not, and if they do, are they just trying to sucker us in?”

It was raining again, and the pilothouse windows were practically opaque. Matt walked out on the bridgewing and looked through his binoculars until the spray clouded them as well. He caught only glimpses of the enemy and quickly stepped back under cover. A damp towel was draped over the back of his chair, and he used it again to wipe the binoculars and dry his face. His hat and clothes were soaked. At least I can get out of it, he thought. The guys on deck at their battle stations or on the fire-control platform are probably miserable.

“Their lookouts’ll have to see us soon.”

“Range, fifteen-t’ousands!” Minnie cried. “They do see us! Lookout says the Jaap tin caan is turning this way!”

Matt gestured for her to hand him the microphone headset. “Mr. Campeti, this is the captain speaking.”

“This is Campeti.”

Normally, Matt might have just stood on the bridgewing and shouted his question up at the man, but with the rain and wind…

“Those Jap five-incher’s have about the same range our new ammo’s supposed to have, right?”

“Yes, sir, but they got advantages and disadvantages.”

“Advantages?”

“They throw a heavier shell, high explosive-and their gun’s crews’ll stay dry in those enclosed mounts.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, chances are, they’ve got better fire control. Otherwise, we’ve got the edge in rate of fire and maybe fire correction.”

“Why?”

“Those five-incher’s are bag guns. They gotta ram the projectile, then the powder bag, and they have to change elevation to do it. They’re fast, don’t get me wrong-we’ve seen ’em-but we should get off four or five more rounds per minute than they can-until the ready lockers run dry. It’ll even up when we have to start passing ammo from below by hand.”

Matt considered. “Okay, Sonny. How close do you want ’em?”

“We should be in range now, but with this sea… I’d feel more confident at ten thousand, and that would still keep us out of range of their twenty-fives. Course, we’re already technically in range of their five-inchers.”

Matt nodded, though Campeti couldn’t see it. He had a hunch that the Japanese captain would be frugal with his ammunition. According to Okada’s cook, Hidoiame had seen action before she crossed over, and then she’d used ammunition on Mizuki Maru and the other ships she’d murdered. Her bunkers might be full for now, with that tanker she had along, but her magazines could be seriously depleted. Walker could always get more ammunition.

“Range is fourteen thousand and closing, Skipper. Target has increased speed.” Campeti shouted.

“What’s the range to the tanker?” Matt asked.

“Ah, about fourteen. I think she’s turning away.”

“Can you hit her?”

There was a brief pause. “I… think so. She’s bigger than the tin can-not a lot bigger. She ain’t no fleet oiler, but she’s slow.”

“Very well. Target the tanker with every gun that will bear!”

“Aye, aye, Skipper-but what about the can? She’s really pourin’ on the coal now!”

“The tanker, Sonny!”

“Aye, Captain.”

Matt handed the headset back to Minnie.

“Why the tanker, Skipper?” Spanky asked. “We get the can, we’ll have the tanker on a plate.”

“Something I guess I have to try,” Matt said. “There’ll be a smaller crew on the tanker, and maybe not all those men are murderers.” He shrugged. “Let’s just say I owe General Shinya one.”

“One what?”

“A chance we never really gave the ordinary seamen on Amagi, Spanky: a chance to do the right thing.” An ironic smile appeared on his face. “Those’re Japs over there, Mr. McFarlane, but you do realize that’s not why we’ve been chasing them, don’t you? That’s all over-or it should be for us. We’re here because they’re murderers with a very deadly weapon and they have to be stopped. I’m going to give them an option, a single chance; then I mean to start taking all the options they think they have away!” He smiled fondly at his friend. “Now take your station aft, at the auxiliary conn. I have the deck and the conn.”

“Aye, aye, sir. I stand relieved. The captain has the deck and the conn!” Spanky announced, and with a quick, curious nod at Matt, he bolted aft, down the ladder.

Matt went to the heavy Bakelite telephone mounted on the aft bulkhead that connected the bridge to the comm shack. “Mr. Palmer, this is the captain speaking. I want you to send a voice-radio message. Start with the frequency Okada used to contact the Japanese ships. Message contents: This is the cruiser USS Walker.” (Matt knew the Japanese had often mistaken the very similar silhouettes of four-stack destroyers with the bigger four-stack light cruisers like the old Marblehead. Maybe that would help.) “Our old war does not exist here, and this ship is no longer at war with the Empire of Japan. Yours is a criminal ship, however, with criminal officers who murdered helpless prisoners of war and civilian… natives. That’s not war on any world. You have become pirates, and your leaders must be held accountable for their crimes. Surrender your ships now and you’ll get a fair trial. Those of you innocent of the crimes I described will be honorably treated and allowed to emigrate to a land governed by honorable Japanese! Refuse, and you’ll be destroyed. This offer will not be repeated, nor are the terms negotiable. You have one minute to reply.”

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!”

Matt blinked. “Pipe it up,” he said. A big splash erupted close alongside, and there was a crash aft as a fifty-pound shell skated off a wave top and hit the forward funnel sideways, nearly shearing it in two. Another splash exploded close to starboard, and shell fragments whined and peppered the hull. Three guns boomed, following closely on the salvo alarm, and hot orange streaks converged on the enemy destroyer. They exploded short, sending a wall of spray and white smoke gushing over the distant ship.

“Up fifty!” came Campeti’s excited roar. “Load! Three rounds, rapid salvo fire!”

Walker was in a gunfight for her life, and Matt was about to talk to the bad guy.

“This is Captain Reddy of USS Walker speaking,” he said calmly into the mouthpiece. “Do you wish to reconsider my offer?”

“I am Captain Kurita, of his Imperial Japanese Majesty’s ship Hidoiame,” crackled the harsh, heavily accented reply. It always surprised Matt how many Japanese naval officers spoke some English. Then again, they’d had to for a long time… “Surrender,” Kurita spat the word, “will not happen. True warriors of the Emperor gladly prefer death to such dishonor. Besides, as you have made clear, there is no… incentive for myself and certain others of my crew to do so, in any case,” the Japanese captain continued. “What we did was considered a necessary expedient at the time. We might not have done it had we known then… Regardless, there will be no surrender. You are no cruiser,” Kurita accused. “Your ship is a relic, an antique! You should beg me to spare you!”

Two very near misses straddled Walker, and Matt nearly lost his footing when the deck heaved. “Range nine t’ousands,” Minnie reported. The enemy begins to turn to starboard!” Walker bucked as another salvo lashed out. Matt glanced down at the fo’c’sle and saw Stites directing the deadly dance of the crew of the number one gun. A shell handler snatched the empty brass casing with gloved hands and another slammed a long, heavy, shiny shell into the smoking breech Stites held open.

“Not a chance in hell,” Matt barked, “and you have no choice. Your tanker is afire and you have nowhere to replenish. Everywhere you think you might do so is well protected. Even if we don’t sink your murdering ass, you’re about to be stuck, out of ammo, out of fuel, and out of luck-wallowing helplessly until you end up on some strange shore and tear your guts out on a reef!” He laughed fiercely. His blood was up. “And if any of your people get ashore, they’ll be lucky to survive long enough for something to eat them. You have no place to go!”

Kurita was no longer listening. He’d broken the connection, and Matt slammed the instrument in its cradle on the bulkhead.

The fight became a drawn-out duel, both ships sprinting and turning to spoil the other’s aim, while closing in an ever-tightening embrace. At six thousand yards, 25 mm occasionally tested the range and sometimes clattered against steel. The sea remained heavy, the wind strong, and in the distance, the burning tanker cast an eerie glow on wet gray paint and dull whitecaps. Now that Hidoiame ’s aft turret would bear, both ships started landing heavy blows on one another like lightweight boxers in a slugfest without any rules. Hidoiame had better speed and firepower-four guns to only three on Walker that would ever bear at once-but the old destroyer’s better, more experienced gunnery was starting to eat her up. Fires burned all over Hidoiame, and a lot of her 25 mm batteries had been shot away. The aft funnel was gone and smoke coursed from a spectacular hole low in the large bridge structure. Other hits had been observed along her hull.

Matt also had no illusions about what his ship could take, and not only did he have a lot more practice at… bizarre surface actions than his opponent, but he’d been baptized by fires much heavier than Hidoiame could dish out. He’d learned his ship like his own hand, and he controlled that hand like a surgeon.

Walker was taking a beating of her own, however, mostly from that aft turret on Hidoiame. The forward turret hadn’t landed many hits. Maybe it was damaged. Still, Walker was trailing an oil slick from near-miss buckled plates, and high-explosive shells had made a shambles of her starboard 25 mm mount. A heavy hit amidships had cut off the guns on the platform above the deckhouse from the gun director. They were in local control now, but still getting occasional hits. A blow behind the deckhouse would have taken out the number two torpedo mount if it had still been there. As it was, it buckled the deck and nearly blew the aft funnel off the ship. The fireroom beneath it started losing pressure. Another hit shredded the chief’s quarters and sent the number one gun’s crew sprawling before Stites rounded them up and pushed the half-stunned ’Cats back to their posts. That one came awful close to the wardroom, Matt thought anxiously. Gray was down there now, somewhere in the bow, trying to stop the flooding.

Cheers and stamping feet rocked Walker when Hidoiame ’s forward turret erupted like a fireworks show spraying from a volcano. Matt knew the turret was designed to blow up, not out, so there might be little internal damage, but the turret was down for the count-and Hidoiame suddenly turned away and started making smoke!

“We’ve got her!” Matt breathed.

“Target course is t’ree two seero!” Minnie cried, then paused, listening to reports. “Flooding in forward fireroom! Tabby says it coming from forward-she think the bulkhead’s sprung! She shoring up now. Super Bosun says we taking lots of water forward!”

“What’re we gonna do, Skipper?” Kutas asked. “They’re running.”

“Chase ’em!” Matt growled. “Make your course three zero zero. We’ll give the number three gun on the starboard side a chance.”

Norm nodded. He’d known the answer before he asked. “Making my course three zero zero,” he confirmed. The salvo warning rang, but the guns waited while the ship changed course. When she steadied up on the new heading, the bell rang again and the guns flashed.

Chief Gray swung the heavy maul against a wooden wedge, trying to force a shoring timber against a sprung hull plate low in the forward crew’s berthing space. Damage from the hit above, in the chief’s quarters, had radiated outward, and he hoped-he prayed-it ended at this plate. The gap was right at the waterline, and the sea sprayed in around the seam with varying pressure, like blood from a terrible wound, as the bow rose and fell.

“Hold it!” Gray shouted through clenched teeth. “Hold that brace steady, goddammit!”

“We trying!” the damage-control ’Cats chorused. He knew they were. Other ’Cats darted around him, unhooking racks and tearing them out of the way, and the space was a hell of hammering, yelling, groaning noise; acid sweat that burned the eyes; and a heaving tide of water that flowed across the deck with the motion of the ship. All this was punctuated by the steady salvos of Walker ’s guns, and the explosions of enemy projectiles striking the sea nearby. Shell handlers, mostly Lemurian, but a couple of men, kept up a supply relay through the confusion, bearing shells from the forward magazine, up the companionway, through the wardroom, and up to the number one gun. Gray took a huge, rancid breath and swung the maul with all his might. The gap nearly closed-but a rivet head shot across the compartment and grazed a ’Cat’s forearm, raising a fuzz of fur like a dandelion.

“Jeezus!” the Lemurian yelped and crossed himself.

Gray just stared for a moment, then shook his head. He looked back at the repair and saw the flow had dwindled to a gentle surge. “Here,” he said, handing the maul to a big ’Cat shipfitter. “Try to finish it up. But for God’s sake, be careful you don’t knock it out! Goddamn rivets! Spanky was right.”

Tabasco stuck his head down the companionway. “Tabby need help! Water coming in the forward fireroom! You not hear call?”

“No, I ‘not hear call’!” Gray shouted. The intercom speaker was sliding across the deck. Something had knocked it off the bulkhead. He called three Lemurians by their Navy names: “Dusty, Sleepy, Poot: Go help Tabby. I’m gonna run up and check on the repairs above, then head aft. I’ll be there in a minute.”

He ran up the companionway stairs, breathing hard despite his better condition. He was a touch over sixty, after all, and you didn’t run a lot on a ship… The chief’s quarters had become a maze of twisted bulkheads and supports, dangling cables and conduits, and scattered personal belongings. Besides the dashing shell handlers, a few ’Cats were working there, electrician’s mates, he thought, but there wasn’t much else to do right now. The sea was visible through a gaping hole in the port side and there was no flooding-but water splashed in when the sea slapped against the bow. There was fresh air, however, and he paused a moment to take a breath. The wardroom curtain fluttered behind him, and he stepped through.

The first thing he saw was Sandra. She was standing beside the wardroom table with the light rigged low so she could see to sew. Sick-berth attendants and corps ’Cats were holding a large mound of flesh on the table while she worked. Earl Lanier had taken one in the gut again, and a large flap of his oversize belly had been laid open. Yellow fat and blood glistened. Wounded ’Cats were on the deck, lying on rack mattresses. Some were covered with bloody bandages, and others were just covered up. SBAs were moving a steady flow out of the wardroom-either to their racks or just out of the way. The ammunition relay did their best not to step on anyone, but they were exhausted and their passage caused an occasional cry.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” Earl demanded, surprising Gray. The cook was not only conscious, but was watching Sandra sew. He took a large gulp of seep from a brown bottle.

“Just admirin’ your armor belt, Earl. A battleship’s got nothin’ on you. I bet your belly would stop a torpedo.”

“Why don’t you get out there and fight, damn you!” Earl roared. “I’m a wounded hee-ro. You let those Jap bastards sink my Coke machine, you’ll be eatin’ scum weenies for the rest of your damn life!”

Machinist’s Mate Johnny Parks stirred from his mattress on the deck. He had a heavy bandage on his head and Gray noticed Diania was there, trying to hold the injured man down. She still looked terrible-and beautiful, he thought-and seemed to have gotten control of her stomach at last. Most of the SBA women had, he realized. Combat tended to focus one’s attention, he reflected.

“I’m with you, SB,” Johnny said. “I can’t listen to that fat bastard’s bellyachin’ anymore.” He grinned. “Not that he ain’t got a helluva belly ache!”

“You stay put!” Sandra ordered Parks. “Your skull may be fractured! Do you want your brains to fall out?”

Johnny laid back down. “I guess not. Gimme some cotton for my ears, at least.”

“No. You can’t sleep right now, and with all the seep you’ve had, you might drift off.”

“No chance o’ that, with that elephant’s ass carryin’ on so.”

“Why, you…”

“Hush!” Sandra ordered, and Lanier looked at her with bleary, almost-drunken eyes.

“Well… you want I should keep the lug awake or not?” Lanier complained.

Gray lurched through the crowded compartment, headed aft. Sandra stopped him. “How is it going?” she asked. “Is Matthew all right?”

Gray patted her arm. “Damned if I know.”

Hidoiame was difficult to see through her smokescreen, but she was visible, and Campeti continued punishing her with the numbers one, three, and four guns even as she slowly drew away. She was faster than Walker, and Matt wouldn’t strain his engines more than necessary in these seas and with the damage his ship had taken. Not yet. The enemy was still well within range. But so was Walker. Matt’s crew cheered again when there was a bright yellow flash and white smoke burst out of the distant black cloud. One of their guns had hit a boiler, no question about it. If that didn’t finish Hidoiame, it had to slow her down.

“By God! I think we do have her, Skipper!” the scarred, battle-hardened, First Lieutenant Norman Kutas shouted jubilantly. They were the last words he ever spoke.

A massive geyser erupted just to port, the spray reaching as high as the fire-control platform. A mere instant later, a 5-inch, 51-pound “common” projectile impacted Walker ’s fo’c’sle at the very base of the bridge structure, and 4.1 pounds of Type 0 high explosive detonated. The force of the blast and shrapnel it created surged through the thin steel into officers’ country and slaughtered the wounded that had been placed there, every one. More high-velocity fragments slashed in all directions, perforating the hull and sweeping up through the radio room. Signals Lieutenant Ed Palmer’s chair saved his life, but he was dashed against the aft bulkhead like a rag doll. Everyone else in the compartment was killed instantly. Heavier fragments of the shell itself punched through the pilothouse deck, launching blizzards of strake splinters. A hot shard of ragged steel hit Norm Kutas under the jaw-and didn’t stop until it snatched the steel helmet off the top of his head. Norm fell to the deck without a sound-but there was plenty of screaming on the bridge.

For an instant, Matt thought he was the only person in the pilothouse to escape injury. He was stunned by the concussion, but the only thing he felt had been a terrible jolt in his feet and legs. There was no fire, thank God, but the air was full of brown smoke and drifting fur. Norm was down, he realized, and he took a step toward the vacant wheel. He felt the pain then. Something was wrong with his leg, and there was a hot poker in his lower abdomen. “Uhn,” he said through gritted teeth, and pressed his hand against his side. Suddenly, Minnie was up, and so were a few others. Minnie lunged for the bright brass wheel, straddling Norm’s still form.

“The helm don’t answer, Skipper!” Minnie cried when the wheel spun freely and the ship didn’t turn.

“Inform Mr. McFarlane he has the conn,” Matt managed. “I’m on my way there now.” He tried to turn, but had to grab his suddenly warped chair to keep from falling.

“Skipper?” Minnie cried. For the first time she saw the blood streak down Matt’s trouser leg and saw how much there was. She dashed for her headset dangling from the aft bulkhead. “Mr. McFarlane, you have the conn!” she cried. “Caap’n’s orders. Corps ’Cats to the bridge, on the double!”

Sandra’s worst nightmare had come true. Again. Once more, her love, her husband, was laid bleeding before her, and she didn’t know if she could save him. Before, he’d been on a bloody canvas cot on the beach at Aryaal. Now he was on the green-linoleum wardroom table in the middle of a battle on a heavy sea. She had better equipment and help this time, but as she cut Matt’s sopping trousers away, she began to suspect this wound was much, much worse.

“How bad is it? Gray demanded. He’d raced to the bridge immediately after the explosion and carried the captain down himself. He wasn’t injured, but he wore just as much blood.

“I don’t know yet!” Sandra shouted in frustration. “Something went in his leg and there’s a lot of bleeding. It may have cut the femoral artery! The way he’s holding his lower abdomen, though, I’m afraid whatever it was didn’t stop in his leg!”

Matt was still conscious, but his face was pale. “Feels like something burning in my belly,” he confirmed; then he grabbed Gray’s sleeve. “Go, Boats,” he said. “Tell Spanky… get those murderous bastards! We can’t let them escape!”

“Skipper…”

“Go! That’s an order.”

With an anguished glance at Sandra, Gray bolted aft.

“No, goddammit!” Spanky stated firmly. His face was black and his beard was singed, and he looked as determined as Gray had ever seen him. A fire around the aft deckhouse was just coming under control as hoses played on the flames. “Japs hit a gas can for the ‘Nancys’ with a wild twenty-five, I guess,” he explained, seeing Gray’s stares. “You musta’ passed Boats Bashear coming aft. He damn near burned to death rollin’ all the depth charges before they blew the ass completely off the ship! I think he got hit by something too.” He shook his head. “We’re done here, Boats,”-he gestured at the column of smoke on the horizon, aft now-“and so are they. We got ’em, don’t you see? The Skipper already got ’em. Even if they don’t sink, and my guess is they will, they got no fuel and damn little ammo left. They are no longer a threat!” He stopped and hawked out the hard-used tobacco he’d been chewing.

“I’m exec. I’m in charge. It’s my decision,” he said. “I won’t waste another man or ’Cat like Bashear”- he jerked his head at Pack Rat-“him, or even you, to stomp a roach just ’cuz it’s still got one leg twitchin’. More important, I won’t risk this ship, what’s left of her, and I damn sure won’t risk the Skipper.” He crossed his arms. “We still got a lot bigger war to win, and he’s the one.” He turned to Paddy Rosen. “Reduce speed to one-third-or however she rides easiest. We’ll see. Our surgeon has some delicate work ahead of her, and so do our damage-control parties. Make your course one seven zero. We’re bound for Manila.”

“One seven zero to Manila, aye,” Rosen replied, his expression carefully neutral.

Gray let out a breath he must have been holding. “I had to pass the order, Spanky,” he said softly. “I… I’m glad you see it this way. The Skipper’s…”

“I know,” Spanky interrupted. “He’s special.” He scratched his bearded chin. “Hell, we’re all pretty scarce fellas. Now get back forward and find out what kind of blood the Skipper needs. That Jap can is finished. Let’s make sure Walker and Captain Reddy aren’t.”

Gray nodded. “What about the crew of that tanker? There might be survivors in boats.”

Spanky took another chew. “The hell with them. Our survivors got priority, and if gettin’ ’em to Manila soonest would save just one of ours, I’d leave a hundred o’ theirs behind any day.”