“Lotta iron flyin’ around amongst all that, Skipper,” Norman Kutas said matter-of-factly, nodding ahead toward the densest concentration of enemy ships. Achilles and Hector were in it now, smoke gushing from their guns.
“Yeah, and we’re bound to catch some,” Matt agreed solemnly; then his lips quirked into a grin. “You’re not worried about something spoiling your boyish looks, are you, Norm?”
The badly-and often-scarred First Lieutenant chuckled. “No, sir. I’m way beyond that, but I feel everything that hits this old ship in my bones.”
“Me too, Norm,” Matt agreed. “So let’s do our best to avoid as many hits as possible.”
“Fancy footwork ain’t gonna save us from everything, Skipper.”
“No, but right now good people are dying, and the enemy’s in disarray. We’ll race through, shooting up whatever we can while avoiding as much return fire as we can manage.”
“Then what?”
Matt shrugged. “We turn around and do it again until our friends are safe and every Dom out there is on the bottom of the sea.”
CHAPTER 22
Above Ceylon January 17, 1944
Tikker scratched his ear around the highly polished 7.7-mm cartridge case thrust through a hole a similar cartridge once shot through it. Sometimes it itched, and he’d begun to associate that with a superstitious foreboding. He looked around. Everything seemed fine, and it had been a swell day for killing Grik. The “Nancy’s” engine rumbled healthily above and behind, and they hadn’t been hit by any Grik “shot-mortars” when they bombed the hell out of a retreating column earlier in the flight. It was windy, and the plane bounced around a lot, and the sea to the west showed white teeth, but they should be able to set down safely in Salissa ’s lee. All in all, it was a glorious day, and he didn’t know why his ear was bugging him. A shout from aft shattered his sense of well-being.
“How come you don’t go down and let me shoot more Grik?” Cap- tain Risa-Sab-At, commander of Salissa’s Marine contingent, demanded sharply.
“I don’t see any more,” Tikker snapped. “They’ve had enough. They abandon Saa-lon!” He pointed down, behind them, where Haakar-Faask, Naga, Bowles, Felts, Saak-Fas, and Clark were spraying grapeshot across the rocky, mushy land bridge to India proper, gnashing the remnants of the Grik host trying to cross in daylight with the ebbing tide. The Allied armies were rapidly advancing to chop up what remained of the enemy on Ceylon, and those stranded by the tide would likely be annihilated.
“Then let’s go kill some of those trying to cross the sand!” she demanded.
“Right! We’d probably be hit by our own ships, if we go low enough for you to shoot them with that musket! Besides, we’re low on fuel!” Tikker was growing beyond annoyed. Risa had been cooped up on Salissa throughout the campaign, and she’d begged hm to take her on this patrol. He’d reluctantly agreed when Admiral Keje just as reluctantly gave his blessing. They both knew how anxious she was to get in the fighting, any fighting, particularly after hearing of her brother Chack’s-and Dennis Silva’s-latest… adventures on New Ireland. She’d spent the flight taking potshots at Grik during their bombing runs. At first, the shots surprised and alarmed him. Then they became annoying. He’d told her that if she flew with him, she had to perform all the duties of his spotter/wireless operator, and she’d readily agreed. Once in the air, however, she’d “spotted” all right, trying to get him to dive in on every lost Grik they saw, and he’d quickly determined she barely knew Morse. Except for the column they’d chopped up, it had been a wasted patrol. He hoped the other three ships in his flight had made better observations.
“So,” he said, trying to make conversation and lighten the tension he felt. Risa was a “dish” after all, as the Amer-i-cans would say, and, despite his present aggravation, he actually kind of liked her. There were those pesky rumors about her being “mated” to Silva, and he didn’t know what to think of that. She didn’t seem to be pining for the big chief gunner’s mate, however, and he wondered if he had a chance. He never would have before the war, but now? To say things had changed was a vast understatement. She was just so damn intense sometimes! “What are you going to do? Did you really put in for a transfer?”
“Yes,” she shouted back through the voice tube. “To a line regiment. I want to stay on this front and kill Grik, of course, but I’ll go east if I must.”
Where Silva is, Tikker thought glumly. “There is Salissa!” he said, pointing west-southwest. The mighty ship was anchored a few miles offshore, with Humfra Dar a thousand tails beyond her. Both massive “carriers” were screened by a squadron of “DD” frigates under the command of Jim Ellis. It was a heady sight that banished his gloom. Never had so much combat power been assembled in one place, and soon Arracca and her battle group would arrive. Tikker grinned and turned toward the ships and began his descent.
“Must we return?” Risa asked. “This has been… fun.”
Tikker grinned and was glad Risa couldn’t see his embarrassed blinking.
“Yes, fun,” he admitted. “To a degree.”
Once they reached her, he circled Salissa while his squadron mates set down in the water between her and the shore and were recovered. It would still be bumpy there, but the winds were largely blocked by the bulk of the massive ship. Finally, it was Tikker’s turn. He lined up on the calmer water, fighting the crosswind that would buffet them until they neared the sea, and reduced power. Down they swooped, and he heard Risa shout with glee. Just fifteen feet off the water, he was preparing to cut power even further, when a massive waterspout erupted directly in his path and something tore through the nose of his plane, slashing him along the left forearm. Without thought, he pushed the throttle to the stop and leveled off. More splashes rose, seemingly at random throughout the area of the anchored carriers and their screen. An explosion suddenly rocked Cablaas-Rag-Lan’s USS Scott, and the new frigate coasted to a stop, her fo’c’sle bathed in flames.
“They’re bombs!” Tikker muttered wonderingly, looking at the sky as he pulled back on the stick. “Bombs!” he shouted. “They’re bombs, Risa!”
“Yes!” she shouted back. “Bigger than ours! But where are they coming from?”
“They can only be shells from a mighty ship, like Amagi herself or bombs dropped by aircraft!” He frantically continued searching the sky and the horizon. Nothing!
“What’s that?” Risa yelled.
Tikker turned and saw her pointing almost straight up. He followed her gaze. No! That’s impossible, his mind shrieked. High above, very high, higher than he’d ever flown, thirty or forty massive objects drifted lazily, seemingly effortlessly, eastward. They were long and fat and looked like the “scum weenies” that Laan-yeer, the cook, was always trying to make people eat. They were clearly flying but had no wings!
“Send… flying… scum weenies are attacking!” he shouted back at Risa.
“I… I’ll try!” Risa yelled back as Tikker put the plane in the steepest climb he thought it would handle. He was above the splashes now, and could actually see bombs hurtling down. At that moment, several things happened at once. A strangely formed engine, prop still slowly turning, dropped into the sea, followed by a woven wood contraption of some kind, filled with shrieking Grik. He had no time for the oddity of the sight to register before a bomb erupted directly in the path of another, lower plane, also trying to pull out. The “Nancy” staggered through the spume, but its left wing clipped a wave. Tikker watched in horror as the plane cartwheeled across the sea and literally disintegrated. In the next instant, before he had the slightest opportunity to recover from that awful sight, the horizon before him pulsed with light. A colossal, fiery pyramid of smoke and flame vomited upward and outward from Humfra-Dar, flinging debris, burning planes, unrecognizable fragments, and people through the air like smoldering motes.