Blood In the Water (46 page)

Clustered around and between the carriers were about a dozen of their goofy “cruisers.” He'd sunk a lot of those, but these looked different. Shorter masts and no sails, for one thing, and the armor sloped up and over the decks a lot more, making them less vulnerable from the air.
Well, we're not really interested in them today,
he thought. Those
cruisers were bad news, worse than the big dreadnaughts in some ways, he understood. But they were far enough away from the split task force he needed to protect, and they couldn't fly.

“We've got six planes and twelve bombs,” he said at last. “I wish we had the rest of the guys, but we're it,” he added bitterly. “So here's what we'll do. Two pairs'll hit those two carriers steaming together. Flashy Two, you'll take the one on the right with Three. Flashy Five, you and Seven jump the one on the left. Chase your guns in and break 'em up. Keep 'em from shooting back if you can. If you get 'em, I'll hit the last one with Flashy Four. If you miss, we're the cleanup batters, see? So don't miss. I want all three of those bastards!” He paused. “Look,” he said, “none of this is new. We hammered plenty of Grik ships when they were trying to resupply Madras. If anybody can do this, we can. Just . . . watch yourselves. Who knows what newfangled air defenses they've cooked up.”

He was worried about that. Those rocket things the Grik had used weren't very effective—although there'd been fragmentary hints via wireless of something more worrisome from a scout up the Zambezi. He still didn't see how they could use rockets on a ship without torching themselves, but these guys, these “Jap-Griks,” had aircraft carriers and
planes
. What else might they have come up with? They obviously had enough machine guns to arm at least some of their aircraft. He'd love to get a look at one and wondered what they were based on, as well as how accurate and reliable they were. It had taken the Allies a long time to re-create the technology required to field their own “new” machine guns. Then again, the Allies hadn't been willing to field them until they were
right
—and they weren't unique when it came to underestimating threats either. Grik antiair “canister mortars” had proven somewhat effective against slow-moving, low-flying aircraft. Maybe they'd stuck with them, confident their own armed planes would tip the balance. He'd know soon enough.

Soupy and Conrad peeled off with their wing-'Cats behind them. Ben wasn't concerned about the two leaders. They really did have plenty of experience at this sort of thing, against much smaller targets. The “new” guys in Three and Seven had almost as many hours in their hot ships, but neither had participated in the strikes he'd referred to. He doubted this was the best time to remind them, and they knew it anyway. They also knew to do what their leads did. He and Shirley rolled up on their
starboard wings, looking down from five thousand feet, and watched their friends charge down at the enemy carriers. Puffs of white smoke appeared along each side of both flight decks.
So far, more of the same,
he thought, referring to the canister mortars.
There are a lot of 'em, though,
he realized.
Looks like twenty or more down each side. Plenty to knock down a couple of Nancys. But they're not used to shooting at anything as fast as a P-40 in a dive, and they're jumpy, shooting too soon
. His eyes narrowed.
Either way, there's going to be a lot of iron in the air that those planes have to fly through, and it won't make much difference if it's rising or falling when they get there
. He was too high to see the tracers darting from the attacking planes, but waterspouts galloped in from aft until they climbed the ships' sterns. Immediately, splinters and dust formed advancing clouds—and green and gray planes began to burn.

Now!
he thought, just as the four planes pulled up, one after the other. Two high, heavy splashes rose behind the carrier on the right. One erupted close aboard and hurled a cascade of spume on the flight deck—just as the fourth bomb must've hit right in the center of a group of planes staging aft of the island. In an instant, several were tossed off the ship by the force of the blast, but it was the secondary explosion, fed by bombs and fuel, that appeared to ignite a floating volcano. Flashes sparkled amid mushrooming flames and blazing debris—and the ship was just . . . gone. All that remained was a burning stain of black fuel oil and a dark cloud spreading across the water, preceded by thousands of splashes, large and small. Ben whooped, then caught himself when he realized the carrier on the left had passed, unscathed, through towering columns of spray.

“Flashy Lead, this is Flashy Five,” came Diebel's frustrated voice. “I, ahh, took a few hits,” he said. “I fear they may have disturbed my concentration at a particular moment,” he confessed dryly. “Seven dropped when I did. Not his fault.”

“What's your status?”

“My windscreen is spalled, and there are holes in my right wing and aileron. I am losing fuel.”

“Can you make Mahe?” Ben demanded, remembering another time Conrad had been forced to leave a fight. It couldn't set well with the proud Dutchman.

There was a moment of silence. Finally, “Yes, I think so. I am just
switching from my belly tank now. If there are no holes in my other wing or fuselage, I should have no trouble.”

Ben took a deep breath. “Roger that,” he said. “How are you doing, Seven?”

“I think okaay. I heard some-teengs hit my ship, but don't see nuttin'. Intstaa-ments all aay-okaay.”

Ben cringed. Some of the spare parts for his planes had been dispersed to
Tarakaan Island
, but most had been aboard
Baalkpan Bay
. Battle damage to his precious P-40s, already difficult to repair, might soon become impossible. “Very well,” he said. “Both of you head for Mahe now. The Four ship and I will hit the same target before it has a chance to reload its canister mortars. Flashies Two and Three, good job. Now comes the traditional reward: you get to do it again. Hose 'em with your guns, and we'll follow you down. If we get the carrier on this run, we'll all try to at least shoot the other one up.” Ben took another deep breath and shifted on his chute. “Let's go.”

The four planes dove. The great ship below was turning ponderously, though probably as radically as it could. Soupy swept in, his wing-'Cat close alongside, and they both sprayed the ship with .50-caliber bullets that savaged planes and running Grik on her deck. Fire roiled suddenly, and black smoke gushed skyward as the Warhawks bored through, shocking the smoke into coiling tendrils with their propwash. It was Ben and Shirley's turn. Ben gazed through the sloped-lens head of his N-3 gun sight, trying to keep the lighted bead in the middle of the ring—and right on the big red “meatball” painted on the carrier's deck. Smoke darkened his view as he closed, but he never completely lost the target. Although few white puffs distracted him slightly, there weren't very many this time, and the carrier was a sitting duck. With a profound sense of retribution for what had happened to
Baalkpan Bay
—and who knew how many of his friends still aboard her—he activated the bomb release and pulled back on his stick. Shirley would've done the same, probably less than a second later, and Ben clawed for altitude before banking left and looking back. Two bombs had hit the ship, maybe a hundred feet apart, hurling deck timbers and parts of aircraft far and wide. Fuel from ruptured planes met the existing flames, and an orange-black fireball rolled into the sky, consuming the abbreviated little conning tower/pilothouse as it spread. Two bombs had splashed alongside,
close enough to look like torpedo hits, and the bursts of water pressure they'd sent against the carrier's hull had probably done almost as much damage as torpedoes. Steam billowed out from under the flight deck, and more rapid-fire explosions rocked the ship.

Ben looked to his right and felt a surge of relief. Shirley was with him, hanging tight, looking at him. He pointed up and made a circling motion, and they soon joined their squadron mates orbiting above. Ben glanced down. Another carrier certainly doomed. It hadn't gone up as catastrophically as the first, but it was clear the spreading flames were out of control. What's more, they'd probably killed everyone on its bridge, and it was circling now, slowing, but still too fast to lower any boats. Ben suddenly realized he hadn't
seen
any boats. Surely it had some, for its Japanese crewmen at least? Maybe not. That would be consistent with Kurokawa's nutty philosophy, though
he'd
certainly escaped plenty of rough situations. Then it struck Ben Mallory that he'd never considered the possibility that Kurokawa might be on one of the ships they'd just destroyed. He still didn't. Somehow, he just knew.
If that Jap freak is on any of 'em,
he thought, suddenly looking for the third carrier,
it'll be the one that stayed apart from the others. One alone would be less tempting than a pair!
He finally saw the ship he sought, surprisingly far away already, steaming north at high speed. Away from the Seychelles. He also saw that most of the cruisers not still in the vicinity of the carriers they'd just attacked had gathered close around it, and they were a lot faster than those he'd seen before. He wondered if they had machine guns. They definitely had canister mortars, and clustered together, expecting attack . . . Then he caught a blur of motion and realized planes were flying off the carrier, rising to join others already orbiting above. He watched them for a moment, but when they didn't do anything other than circle their ship, he sighed.

As badly as he wanted that third carrier—wanted to at least slash through that flight of planes—he found himself considering the odds. He'd lost three of his available P-40s that day, maybe four or five, depending on how badly Flashies Five and Seven were damaged. That might leave him with only these
four
ships to face future surprises like the one that sneaked up on them today. And that, he knew then, was what his planes were really for.
Kurokawa—or whoever commands over there—flushed his planes knowing we're out of bombs, and shooting up his planes
and starting fires on deck is the only way we might still seriously damage his ship,
Ben thought
.
Add a likely much hotter antiair reception—and machine gun–armed fighters that don't need a P-40's performance to swoop down and clobber us while we're on strafing runs . . .
He shook his head. It would be different if the Jap-Grik fighters came after them, or moved to make another strike against what remained of Task Force Alden.
We'd chew 'em up,
Ben thought savagely.
We still can't really hurt the carrier, though, and they . . .
know
both those things, damn it.
He toyed briefly with the notion of attacking the enemy planes, but there were already perhaps two dozen aloft, with more still joining the circle
. That's a tough formation to crack without somebody getting a shot at you—and they'll ram us if they can!
He abruptly understood that instinctively. He took one last look at the enemy, who seemed perfectly content to taunt him—and retire.
They can afford to.
Ben simmered.
We got two of their carriers and a lot of their planes, but
Baalkpan Bay
and all her planes—and people—were worth that trade alone.
Add
Andamaan
, maybe
Geran-Eras
, and who knows what all else, and there's no getting around the fact that they kicked the absolute hell out of us today
.

“Flashy Flight, this is Flashy Lead,” he spat. “C'mon, let's get the hell out of here. I want to check on TF Alden on the way to Mahe, though. We should have plenty of fuel.”

*

“A pity they did not press their attack,” Hisashi Kurokawa murmured, lowering his binoculars.

“They did us great damage,” Captain Mikawa said hotly, thinking of all the
real
people, irreplaceable comrades, they'd lost. There'd been perhaps a dozen Japanese fliers and officers on
Kaga
and
Soryu
, including the latter's captain whom Mikawa had admired a great deal. At least he'd probably died instantly when his ship disintegrated.
Kaga
was still burning fiercely, finally dead in the water.

If Kurokawa noted any rebuke in Mikawa's tone he didn't show it—which suddenly amazed Mikawa when he realized how he'd spoken. But his lord didn't explode, or even raise his voice. If anything, he appeared . . . satisfied. “You don't understand,” he said at last, his voice rising, bordering on triumphant, as he indicated the surviving carrier. “
That
ship, with the largest number of our people aboard, is much more
heavily armed than the others, with the new large-caliber, rapid-firing weapons emplaced.
Our
people man its planes in a strong defensive formation. My only regret about this day is that a fine opportunity to eradicate all of the enemy's modern aircraft may have been lost. On the other hand, we know we destroyed one of their carriers and a large number of other ships, possibly including their most dangerous ship of all, and the man who leads them. I would be wholly satisfied with the exchange based on that possibility alone,” he confessed intently. Then he grasped his hands behind his back and straightened. “In addition, we can quickly replace our losses here. Two more carrier conversions are nearly complete, and with the resumption of raw materials from the mainland, the production of aircraft and Grik pilots has accelerated. We learned a great deal in this confrontation, and the price was not as high as I was willing to pay.” He turned to stare at Mikawa.

“The enemy, on the other hand, is stretched to the breaking point. Despite their many alarming technical advances and the tenacity with which their ape-man lackeys fight, they are much,
much
farther from their base of supply, and we and the Grik have bled them white. Just as significant, we fight only one war. According to that outrageous Frenchman Gravois, the enemy has ridiculously allowed itself to be drawn into a second war in a distant land. We knew this already, but even I never imagined the extent to which that other conflict has diluted their potential combat power. We still have no direct contact with their other enemy, nor do I believe has First General Esshk. But Gravois's people, his ‘League,' apparently has, and I hope to persuade him to introduce us.” He scowled, his face clouding ominously. “I doubt he will, however. Any such direct association might make us too powerful to serve his aims,” he mocked, but then quickly brightened. “Yet even without a coordinated strategy, we and the ‘Dominion' do help each other a great deal. Once we make contact with them, which I intend to attempt, I expect that fact to weigh heavily in favor toward establishing a more cooperative approach”—he sniffed—“for as long as it remains in our interest to pursue it.”