B00BPJL400 EBOK (47 page)

“There
are
a lot of them,” Hardee said grimly, returning to Irvin’s side.

“Our flyboys must see ’em better up there, because I still can’t see squat—until one lights up. And they’re chewing hell out of them! Did General Alden have more air-to-air capable Nancys at Lake Flynn that came to help?”

“No, sir,” Hardee replied. “Tassana-Ay-Arracca sent that
Baalkpan Bay
scrambled her Fleashooter wing.”

Irvin’s skin crawled. “Jesus! Those poor guys are still learning to land on a carrier, and they already crack up half the time! No way they can land in the dark. And they don’t have fuel to last till daylight!”

“No, sir,” Nat agreed, “but there’s a clearing west of the city. A regiment of Impie troops with Seventh Corps overran it earlier, but now they’ll try to secure the environs and light it up with bonfires.”

“My God. Those guys haven’t been ashore eight hours! They’re green as grass. And now they’re going to fight a battle in the dark so they can light up a grass strip?”

“Maybe not,” Nat said. There are still Grik in the city, but the word is those outside have quit fighting. Pulled back.”

“Huh.” Laumer shook his head. “It’ll still be a bloody mess.”

“Yes, sir.”

They watched in silence again as the air battle crept east-southeast. Not toward them so much, but definitely toward the bulk of First Fleet. It
was
getting closer, though, and they could see it in greater detail, particularly through a telescope. Occasionally they caught the flitting, tracer-spitting shapes of the P-1 Mosquito Hawks swarming through the mass of zeppelins. Twice they saw pairs of the little planes apparently collide and fall like tumbling meteors into the sea. It was impossible to say how many of the big gasbags there were—perhaps thirty had already fallen—but every now and then they saw clusters of them illuminated by one of their flaming, falling herd. Laumer was stunned by the sheer wastefulness of the attack. Each zep represented a tremendous expenditure of labor and material, not to mention the time it took to train its crew, and they were just throwing them away! No doubt this massed night attack had a better chance of success than a similar attack in daylight, but the profligacy of the effort, of the
strategy
, struck Laumer as insane. Of course, the Grik had never been concerned about losses, but even if the Allies had developed aircraft that could keep zeppelins away from the front, they were still useful, could still carry more passengers and supplies than a “Clipper,” and could deliver them just about anywhere. Laumer wished the
Allies
had a few of the damn things.

“The Grik aren’t stupid, not anymore,” Irvin murmured. “At least not all of them. There’s got to be a reason they’re doing this now. Is there something else up their sleeve, or do they really have enough zeps to bull all the way to the fleet?”

“Maybe,” Nat said, a little nervously. Big, scattered explosions started flinging illuminated geysers up from the sea. Clearly, some of the suicider bombs had begun to fall. Those things were dangerous as hell—if they could see their targets. Essentially big bombs with stubby wings, a tail, and a Grik pilot lying on his belly with a one-way ticket, they’d almost destroyed
Big Sal
at the first Battle of Madras. But they couldn’t see anything now, and were being wasted too. Or were they? One of the ships in the fleet—it was impossible to tell which—suddenly lit up the sea a couple of miles away. It was probably just luck, or maybe a Grik suicider—how the
hell
did they get them to
do
that?—saw a target in the light of a near miss. Suddenly, they got a little better idea just how many zeps must be up there, because maybe six or seven more suiciders immediately slammed into the burning ship, one after the other. The last few probably hit only floating debris.

“God almighty!” Irvin breathed. He spun and paced aft. “You will
not
fire that weapon for any reason. Is that clear?” he ordered the crew on the three-inch gun. The ’Cats just stared at him, again probably blinking something that meant “Do we look nuts?”

Irvin turned to the front, looking up. Tracers arced lazily just above, and a small flash, like a little cannon shot, replied. What was clearly a Fleashooter burst into flames and began a long spiral toward the sea. Other tracers converged and sparkled against what looked like a growing, dull orange moon.

“Heads up!” a ’Cat trilled on the fo’c’sle. “Iss gonna fall on us!”

That wasn’t going to happen. Already, the great dirigible was edging northward, still a few thousand feet up, its forward section engulfed in flames that surged greedily aft. Somewhat unusually, it was falling in one piece, the glowing embers on the rigid frame growing larger as it accelerated downward. Engines fell away and drifting fragments of burning fabric fluttered like giant fireflies.

“It ain’t gonna hit, but it’s gonna be close!” Danny yelled from forward. “I sure hope it doesn’t draw any damn glider bombs!”

The flaming, glowing skeleton of the Grik zeppelin fell less than two hundred yards off the starboard beam, but for a moment everyone stood and stared, confused. Much of the wreckage never quite made it to the water, but with a great, towering swirl of sparks, it impacted something else and collapsed across it like a massive, glowing web. Laumer’s first horrified thought was that it had fallen on
Santa Catalina
 . . .
But that can’t be!
he realized.
She’s over
there
, northeast!
He confirmed it with a quick glance that revealed her dark shape off S-19’s starboard quarter.
Whatever that is
 . . . He jerked his glass to his eye just as the lookout screeched from above.

“On deck! Grik baatle-waagons is comin’ right at us, starboard side!”

That’s impossible!
Irvin screamed at himself.
There
are
no other enemy ships around! The Air Corps would’ve told us, and they’d been scouting the whole area until the sun went down!
Then his heart ran away like high-speed screws leaving the water in heavy seas
. But there
are
more! There’d been at least three ’wagons still in Madras! Just because they hadn’t come out before, didn’t mean they couldn’t!

“All ahead, emergency flank!” he screamed at the ’Cat in the dark pilothouse, but knew it was already too late. All the effort they’d expended to refloat and refit S-19, all the hell they’d endured then and since, the proud little ship she’d become that turned the tables that day, and the devoted crew who’d made it possible—it was all over, about to be snuffed out like a bug on a railroad track! “Close all internal compartments. Sound the collision alarm!” he added, his soul dying inside him as the monstrous, still-glowing silhouette churned inexorably closer, its armored bow aiming at him like a giant ax.
Maybe that glowing zep carcass’ll at least bring some of their own bombs down on that thing,
he thought bleakly.

The twin NELSECO diesels roared and the old boat began to move, but it was too little, too late. Laumer and Hardee were knocked off their feet when the knife-edge bow of the Grik dreadnaught slashed straight through S-19’s engine room, toppling the little funnel, and driving the three-inch gun and all its crew over the side. For a moment, S-19 was pushed along, jackknifed, the sea curling over her port beam and surging across the deck. Then, with a terrible screeching moan like a dying palka, she finally broke. More of Irvin’s precious crew was tossed into the savage sea when the forward half of S-19 lurched upward, buoyed by internal compartments. Irvin looked up and saw the monstrous Grik battleship rumble past, a mere dozen yards from his stricken vessel, the machinery noises inside almost deafening. It was huge and black, except where burning debris from the zeppelin still flickered, and it looked for all the world like a great moving island covered with the lights of little villages. High above, a few sparks rose amid the coal smoke from the funnels, but otherwise all the gunports were shut and it was completely blacked out. They never would’ve seen it in this dreary night at all if the zep hadn’t crashed on it, and it occurred to Laumer that it probably never saw S-19 either. With all the noise and accompanying vibration of the ships crude, monstrous engines, the Grik might still be unaware they’d just, accidentally, avenged three of their sister ships!

What was left of S-19 had achieved an almost even keel, but was extremely low aft—and getting lower fast.

“Control room bulkhead’s sprung, an’ water comin’ in fast!” the talker cried.

“Tell ’em to evacuate forward!” Irvin yelled, struggling to his feet. He looked around, quickly taking in the hopelessness of the situation. S-19 had small boats, of course, but they’d been mounted on either side of the funnel. Even if they hadn’t been smashed in the collision, water was already past there. It was suicide to jump in the water, and there was no other way to get off the sinking ship. The Grik battleship finally passed them by, rocking them ruthlessly with its wake and churning screws.
Surely Santa Catalina saw the damn thing, lit up like a Christmas tree!
Irvin thought.
Yes!
Two of the protected cruiser’s 5.5-inchers flared and detonated against the aft port side of the battleship’s casemate. They were close enough that that had to hurt! Just north, from the direction the Grik came, the sea lit under the rolling broadside of another Grik battleship, then
another
! Phosphorescent splashes erupted around
Santa Catalina
amid terrible, metallic crashes. Even from this distance, Irvin heard the clattering rush of what could only be
Santy Cat
’s heavy anchor chain, and he wondered if it had been shot away or Mr. Chapelle had it released. Either way, whether
Santa Catalina
was about to join the fight in earnest or run away, S-19 was on her own and there remained only one, desperate possibility.

“Danny!” Irvin screamed down to the chief of the boat, clinging to the 4"-50. “Get everybody below!”

“Below? Are you nuts? The boat’s goin’
down
!”

“And we can’t get off, so we gotta get
in
. Remember S-Forty-Eight?”

Danny blinked, then nodded. It really was the only choice, and he started yelling for everyone to “get down the hatch into the old forward berthing space!” The ’Cats must’ve thought he was nuts too, but every S-boat sailor remembered S-48. She’d been considered jinxed because of the string of accidents she’d endured, but the pertinent one was how she’d sunk in sixty feet of water back in ’21, but her crew managed to bring her bow to the surface and escape, every one, through a torpedo tube! She’d later been salvaged and recommissioned—only to be sort of “lost,” and returned to duty yet again. The last they heard, she was still afloat and probably fighting their Old War on that other earth. Irvin heard Danny yelling a condensed version of this tale to the scared ’Cats he was cramming down the hatch.

Another thunderous broadside shattered the night, and
Santa Catalina
returned fire—but she was moving now, angling away. The second Grik battleship plowed toward them, but, mercifully, it would miss. Irvin scanned the sky for a moment, wishing the damn suiciders would swoop down and slam into the enemy, even if they got S-19 too, but by now there were quite a few explosions on the water near First Fleet—and not as many zeppelins were falling anymore. He prayed it was because they’d been swept from the skies, and not because the Fleashooters were out of ammo.

“C’mon!” Irvin shouted at the ’Cats in the pilothouse. “She’s going, and we have to get to that hatch before the water does. We don’t have the weight of the stern to drag us down, and the more air we keep in the pressure hull, the higher she’ll ride!” The Lemurians didn’t need any more encouragement and bolted down the stairs forward, all but the talker, who remained by Irvin and Hardee’s side.

“I . . . I think my arm is broken,” said Nat Hardee through clenched teeth. He sounded like he was going into shock.

“That’s okay. We’ve got you, Nat,” Irvin said as he and the talker helped the kid down the ladder. It was crowded by the hatch, but ’Cats were almost diving in the hole now as water crept closer and the angle grew more pronounced. There was still light below, and Laumer remembered they’d kept some of the boat’s batteries. Somebody must’ve rerouted the power since the main switchboard was probably on the bottom with the stern by now, but he feared the specter of chlorine gas if water made it into the berthing space.

“Hurry up, damn it,” Danny said to the last five or six waiting ’Cats. “Mr. Hardee’s hurt. Stand by to grab him when you get below!”

The water was coming faster as the bow rose, and suddenly there was only Irvin, Nat, Danny, and the talker.

“Get your stripey tail down that hole, sailor!” Danny yelled at the ’Cat. “Take Mr. Hardee’s legs with you. I’ll lower the rest of him down.”

“You go first,” Nat objected. “I’m perfectly able . . .”

“We’ll be right along, Nat,” Irvin said softly, as boy and ’Cat disappeared down the hatch.

“After you, Chief,” Irvin then said to Danny. He looked at the rushing water and shrugged. “I’ve gotta be last, you know.”

Danny nodded reluctantly and started down. Just then, the boat groaned and the bow pitched farther up. Irvin’s feet fell out from under him and he started sliding backward, towards the deadly sea.

“Shit!” Danny screamed, and launched himself back on deck.

“Get below!” Irvin cried, voice high with terror. “That’s an order!” Danny ignored him and caught Laumer’s scrabbling arm.

“Orders ain’t no good at times like this,” Danny gasped, slinging Irvin up the sloping deck. He’d always been wiry, but Irvin never thought he had the strength for something like that. He landed beside the hatch and turned with his hand outstretched for Danny to grab, but the chief slammed to the deck beside him and literally shoved him down the hatch headfirst. Danny started to jump in after him, but realized that at this angle, there was no way they could pull the hatch cover shut from below. Somebody had to
lift
the damn thing!