Blood In the Water (18 page)

“The contact has opened fire!” the talker cried, just as a pair of gigantic splashes arose several hundred yards ahead of
Amerika
.

“I saw,” Lange muttered grimly, staring aft now at the charging battleship. The sea churned away from her bow and she seemed almost low by the head as she shouldered it aside. He knew that was an illusion.
Savoie
was designed to be a stable gun platform, and she didn't ride the waves as much as batter through them, keeping her deck—and guns—as level as possible. He sighed. She was also clearly gaining. Another warning came, then more shots, closer this time. Finally, an apparently very carefully aimed salvo landed close enough to shake the ship and drench the bridge with falling water. This was followed by a terse signal that there'd be no further warnings, and the next salvo would fall directly on the ship.

“What must I do?” Lange pleaded of Adar, who merely scratched his chin and stared for a moment, blinking.

“I will not order you what to do,” he said at last, “but it is clear we cannot escape. Nor can we fight,” he added, noting the way Sandra's eyes looked almost pleadingly at the ship's meager gun, aft. “If we fire at them, they will certainly destroy us. They have already proven they can.” He spread his hands. “I see no alternative to obeying their command to stop. Perhaps we may at least continue to delay things long enough for friends to notice.” Lange's eyes suddenly lit and he bolted inside the pilothouse. “All stop! Tell engineering to vent steam, at once! We make them think we are damaged!” He managed a desperate grin back at Adar and Sandra. “She is old, after all, and we have pushed her hard. If they want this ship, they will have to wait while we ‘effect repairs,' which will take as long as we can delude them!”

*   *   *

“Damn,” Gunnery Sergeant Arnold Horn muttered to Lieutenant Toryu Miyata. The two had arranged their deck chairs so they could “watch the show,” with a lot of other wounded who'd walked or limped outside to see what was going on. But those last rounds had fallen awful close, soaking them both to the bone. Now the boat deck was packed with staring men and 'Cats, the engines had stopped, and steam and smoke roared skyward from the two garishly painted funnels amidships. “I think we broke something,” he said.

“Or
they
broke it, with those near misses,” Miyata speculated.

“Yeah. I bet you could knock a hole in this straw-bottom bitch's belly with a ball-peen hammer. League bastards. What can they be thinking? Scuttlebutt is they want to avoid a war, but can you imagine a quicker way to start one than by shooting up a hospital ship with Adar and Captain Reddy's wife aboard?”

“Who are they anyway, this ‘League'? And what do they want? You were aboard
Walker
when she sank one of their submarines”—Miyata nodded at the gray steel monster steaming closer—“and that is apparently the same ship that interfered with the Republic's preparations to launch an offensive against the Grik. But frankly”—he waved at his foot—“I was preoccupied with other things and did not learn as much as I would have liked about them during my convalescence.”

Horn shrugged. “Me too. Didn't really think about them. I sure never expected to see them here! They're some kind of French Nazis, I heard.
But something else too. And they're supposed to be in a heavier weight class than us.” He snorted. “I believe it, if they can spare that thing just to pester us!”

Miyata considered. “Well, they must have a plan. They could have sunk us. I wonder what they want.”

His was obviously a universal sentiment, and as many of
Amerika
's crew and passengers as could make it on deck slowly gathered to watch the powerful ship's relentless approach. Finally, when it lay just five hundred yards off, secondaries trained on the helpless old liner, Horn noticed a commotion forward around the lifeboat davit closest to the bridge where one of the
Amerika
's motor launches was being lowered down even with the deck.

“Hey!” Horn said. “What the hell? Come on!”

Together, the two men pushed their way through the crowd, Horn half supporting Miyata, until they broke through beside the launch. Horn was stunned to see Adar and Kapitan Leutnant Becker Lange grimly stepping into the boat to join Sandra, Diania, and several sailors already seated. Lange looked nervous, and Adar . . . Horn never could figure out what 'Cats were thinking. Diania, just as expressionless as Adar, was holding a bag against her chest. He assumed it was packed with necessities for her and her boss. Sandra looked . . . deadly furious.

“Hey!” he said again, louder. “Where are you going?”

Sandra spared him a harried, bitter smile. “They've demanded our presence—specifically,” she stressed, “aboard
Savoie
. We're hostages,” she added with a curled lip. “They've assured us that
Amerika
and all aboard will be treated well as long as we go across, and we won't be harmed as long as
Amerika
behaves—and gets underway as soon as possible. She's a ‘prize.'” She snorted. Then she glanced at Lange and lowered her voice. She probably wasn't worried anyone would blab, she just did it for general principles. “There's nothing wrong with the engines,” she told Horn. “They're trying to buy time, hoping one of our ships or planes comes close enough to see what's going on and can get a message off, at least.” She hesitated, darting an eye at Miyata. “You've . . . been a prisoner before, Gunny Horn. Endured things I can't imagine. I'm counting on you to take care of our people. Keep them organized; keep their hopes up. Keep them
soldiers
,” she stressed.

“Lower away!” Lange snapped at the 'Cats beside the davits. The boat
lurched downward. Horn stared at Sandra, then at Diania, his eyes wide. “No,” he said simply, and stepped into the boat.

“Belay!” Lange shouted, glaring at him.

Sandra was glaring too. “I gave you an order!”

“Yes, ma'am, you did,” Horn agreed. “You said, ‘Keep them soldiers.'” He jerked his head back at the assembled wounded. “They don't need me for that, and there're plenty of officers to keep them organized. You need me to keep
your
hopes up . . .
because
I've been a prisoner—and I got away!”

“I've been a prisoner before as well,” Sandra snapped, “and can take care of myself.”

“Sure. But you had Silva with you then.” He shrugged. “I may not be Silva—and don't ever tell him I said this—but I'm the next best thing. And besides”—he snorted angrily and held his hands out, palms up—“if he ever found out I didn't go, to look after you and Adar”—he nodded hesitantly at Diania—“and the rest, well, let's just say life wouldn't be worth living. If he let me live.”

“I, for one, have never been a prisoner,” Adar said wryly, “and would consider Gunny Horn's presence and . . . expertise a comfort.”

Sandra tried to hide the hint of a sad smile by rubbing her eyes. “Oh, very well. Just don't do anything stupid.”

“Never, ma'am.” He grinned. “I told you, I'm not Silva. So long, Miyata!” he called to his friend. “I'll see you . . . wherever the hell they take us.”

“Lower away,” Lange barked again, staring speculatively at Gunny Horn.

*   *   *

Kapitan Adler Von Melhausen shuffled back and forth on his ship's quiet bridge, staring out the windows at the great dreadnaught off their starboard beam. He was filled with a fury he hadn't known since that terrible day thirty years before when he felt his ship shiver and buck with the impacts from
Mauretania
's guns. The watch, human and Lemurian, all too young to remember that day—or the astonishing events that followed—had the feel of it, though. The sense of injury, violation. Helplessness. They were resentful, and occasionally glanced at him with sad, yearning looks. He didn't know what to do and vaguely, tortuously, remembered the last
time he'd thought he did. He'd made a terrible mistake at the Battle of Grik City, and lives might have been lost because of it. He was unfit to command; his time had passed, and he'd even come to terms with that. But Becher was like a son to him. The ship would be in good hands when he was gone.

The motor launch came into view, cresting the light swells, laboring toward
Savoie
. He felt another stab of rage and his fitful old heart thundered in his chest.
The ship would
not
be in good hands! She was captured, and Becher was to be a hostage
. How had such a thing occurred? He stood straighter and clasped his hands behind his back.
Odd,
he thought.
Again I cannot feel my left hand! It is as if it is gone!
He kneaded it with his right, but felt nothing at all.

“Kapitan Von Melhausen!” the young helmsman murmured. “Are you all right?”

He blinked. “I am well,” he said, and his voice sounded strangely slurred, even to his ears, but also stronger than it had been for . . . a long time?
Why would I think that? Have I been ill? Am I now?
He blinked again, and his eyes widened.
There is an enemy ship over there!
he suddenly realized anew, all thoughts of just a moment before, over the last quarter century in fact, suddenly swept away.
A French battleship! Oh, what a glorious accomplishment for a mere armed merchant ship, no matter what the cost! It is
right there, and its guard is down! It is terribly powerful, but I too have a powerful weapon!
His left arm dangled uselessly at his side, and inexplicably, the vision in his left eye began to darken. Perhaps he should call the surgeon? It would wait until after he'd done one last thing.

“All ahead flank! Right full rudder!” he shouted, his voice sounding strong but faraway.
It must be the wind blowing through the pilothouse. The cooling wind
.

“But Kapitan!” came the shrill reply, and Von Melhausen stared.

My God!
What is that . . . thing at the wheel?
His mind demanded.
I . . . should know, I
do
know, but . . . No time!
With a burst of strength no one who saw him would ever suspect he might still summon, he slammed the horrified, blinking Lemurian aside with his shoulder and spun the wheel with his right hand.
Why won't the left one work? No matter
. “Full steam!” he roared, and even as he did, his left eye went entirely dark.

“No! Do not!” someone cried, but then Von Melhausen heard the bells ring up. He smiled.
Of course they did!
I am still Kapitan of SMS
Amerika
!
My crew will obey!

*   *   *

“Oh . . . ah,” Adar managed. He'd been staring back the way they came while everyone else gazed at the mountain of weapon-bristling steel they approached. He'd looked for a while himself, still amazed the thing could actually float any better than an angular slab of stone—which it resembled to him. But then something drew his gaze back to the sleeker, more pleasing lines of the old liner. The garish (even to him) paintwork applied by the Republic was now dulled by rust, but the long, coiling, serpent-like creature that adorned its side was still quite visible, and the hubris of the bold image, considering how vulnerable the great vessel truly was, suddenly struck him. Maybe it was simply fear that made him look back, reluctance to face the uncertainty ahead. He was terrified of what would become of him and his friends—all his people, for that matter. It was obvious the League meant to use them in some way that would not be helpful to his people's cause. But he had no choice. Balanced against the threat
Savoie
posed to so many helpless men and Lemurians who'd already sacrificed so much, whatever the League might do to him was insignificant. That didn't mean he didn't hate them, and maybe it was just the profound, bleak sadness within him that, no matter how well they were treated, the wounded aboard
Amerika
wouldn't soon be home in Baalkpan after all, that made him look back. For whatever reason, he noticed the dark smoke belch from her funnels before anyone else, and his keen eyes saw the water at her stern churn to life. Lange and Horn looked back when he spoke, and Lange suddenly shouted over the small, popping engine at the Lemurian holding the tiller: “Turn to starboard, for your life! We must get out from between them!”

“What?” Sandra said, turning around. “Oh no!” she practically shrieked, and Diania grabbed her when she tried to stand. The small gun on
Amerika
's bow suddenly fired, quickly followed by the one positioned aft. The ships were close, but they still heard the shrill rip of the shells passing almost over them. Both impacted against the battleship—it was impossible to miss—but neither detonated. One crunched into the
superstructure, leaving a visible hole. The other ricocheted off the hull armor and warbled off over the sea.

“No!” Sandra screamed again as
Amerika
gathered way, her length beginning to shorten as her rudder vectored the thrust of her screws. Her guns fired again and again, as shapes on her boat deck scrambled for cover, or possibly, some way to fight. Maxim guns stuttered down her length, throwing clouds of lead and copper dust among men aboard
Savoie
, as they too scattered for cover, or raced back to weapons they'd abandoned. In all,
Amerika
must have gotten off five or six unanswered salvos, only a couple bursting harmlessly against
Savoie
's armored side. Doubtless they were the same rounds the old liner brought to this world and age had taken its toll on them as well. But in that time, the ship narrowed the gap to her captor enough that it was clear that Kapitan Von Melhausen—it had to be him; only he commanded the moral authority and devotion to inspire his crew to so rash an act—intended to smite
Savoie
with the only weapon he had that might actually hurt her:
Amerika
herself. That was when
Savoie
's secondary armament, already roughly aimed, finally began coughing fire and smoke, and her great turrets with their massive guns started to turn.