“I zap him already!” Seepy answered indignantly through the same tube. His voice came dull and tinny over the sound of the air gushing past the two open cockpits and the drone of the engine above and between them. He’d sent the long, harsh keystroke from his wireless transmitter that basically meant “heads-up!” It was not something pilots wanted to receive on scout-training flights-particularly since everyone in the wing could hear it, or would hear about it, and the zap was followed by the miscreant’s tail number.
Orrin watched with satisfaction as the other plane contritely returned to its proper station, and he realized with a start that he was satisfied not only with his wayward pilot, but with his whole new setup. He’d honestly been dubious at first. He’d been through hell in the fighting in the Philippines, but that hadn’t compared to the ordeal he and only a few surviving others endured at the hands of their Japanese captors before and during their transport on Mizuki Maru. Arriving on this world and surviving the massacre that followed left him starved and mostly dead, but he had survived and he was actually starting to like it here.
It took him a while to get used to things, of course. The presence of dames-of any race-in his cousin’s Navy, as well as commanding some of its ships, required some adjustment, but Admiral Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan, commander of Maaka-Kakja and her task force, was an absolutely swell gal-with more guts than he had, he was sure. Nancys weren’t P-40s, or anything close, but they were decent little kites and they were probably even more reliable. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about this whole new war he was in the middle of; he had no experience on the western front, but the ’Cats were good guys, and if they hated the Grik as much as they did, he was willing to take their word how bad they were. He knew firsthand how lousy the Doms were, so he guessed the reasons he fought really hadn’t changed that much for him.
He did like being COFO, he realized. He liked his pilots and he liked ’Cats in general. He’d always liked cousin Matt, even when he treated him like a kid-when he was a kid. He even liked most of the officers he’d met attached to the task force-except Colonel Shinya. He respected Shinya and believed he knew his stuff, and he knew Matt trusted the guy, but he was a Jap, damn it! He just couldn’t get over that yet. All in all, though, he guessed he could have wound up in a lot worse situation. He stretched.
“Hey, Commaander,” came the muffled voice from behind, “look tree o’clock down, mebbe six miles. There some mountain fishes down there.”
Orrin looked. Sure enough. Damn, those things are big! At five thousand feet and several miles, they looked like whales a few hundred yards off, cruising slowly, their massive flukes never breaking the surface. The bow wave they pushed in front of what he’d been told were kind of their foreheads looked like breakers on a distant beach.
“We go mess with them?”
Orrin chuckled to himself, but spoke sternly. “No, not this time.” On occasion, they used the mighty beasts like practice targets, but Admiral Lelaa had forbidden actually dropping anything directly on them. They’d already discovered they could kind of herd the massive creatures by dropping bombs around them, and they’d done it a couple of times to clear the dangerous things out of the task force’s path, but so far, for some reason, mountain fish in this region seemed totally disinterested in ships-or anything much but bombs-that might divert them from whatever destination they had in mind. Generally, they took a “leave them alone as long as they leave us alone” approach out here.
“But we got two practice bombs,” Seepy reminded. They also carried a crate of live, hand-droppable mortar bombs aboard. That was SOP now, but Seepy didn’t mention those.
“I know, and we’ll use them when we get back on one of the towed targets. Even when we miss, the guys watching will get more out of it than if we use ’em out here where no one can see.” Orrin shook his head. “We’re not going to pester the big fellas today!” He paused, glancing at the little mirror that showed him the fuel gauge bobbing in the tank, then looked at the bulky, windup clock embedded in the instrument panel. Watches were scarce these days-he sure didn’t have one-but it was essential for flight leaders, at least, to keep track of the time.
“About thirteen thirty. Time to head back,” he shouted. He’d been keeping an eye out for their replacements for a while. Sometimes the guys liked to “bounce” each other, like real pursuit pilots, and trying to get the “old man” added extra spice to the game. He didn’t discourage it, as long as things didn’t get out of hand. Nobody wanted to end up in the drink! But he also knew the Grik had aircraft now, and it was probably only a matter of time before the Doms did too. They already had their pet flying lizards. They’d been promised new planes with better performance, as soon as Colonel Mallory got the new radials on line. For some reason, nobody seemed to doubt he would. Then they needed rubber for tires, which was supposed to be coming out of Ceylon and India soon. It was widely rumored the new ships would not be floatplanes, though, and Orrin had mixed feelings about that. He loved the idea of the performance upgrade, but also liked something that would float if he was ever forced down on the scary sea.
USS Maaka-Kakja (CV-4)
Admiral Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan paced the bridge of her mighty ship with undiminished pleasure, despite the presence of her scruffy, greasy chief engineer, who dogged her every step. She knew what mice were; there were similar, if not identical, creatures on her world, and she had to admit that Gilbert Yeager, one of the original fireroom “Mice” aboard USS Walker, certainly reminded her of one, even if he was taller than she was. As much as he physically resembled a mouse, she’d heard that he’d once been just as quiet. No longer. Now he never hesitated to bring his daily reports straight to her, and if those reports sounded more like the nasal, squeaky whining of an angry mouse, she had only herself to blame. She’d encouraged it.
“… an’ after I tole ’em to fix it, they just oogled at me an’ asked me how!” Gilbert ranted. “How many times I gotta show ’em how to do the same god d… gut-dumpin’… thang, again an’ again, afore they get wise?”
Until you learn to explain what you are doing and why, Lelaa thought.
“How we ever come this far without stallin’ out, sinkin’, ’er just rollin’ belly-up, is a myst’ry to me,” he droned on, “since mosta my division cain’t find their swishy tails with both hands, let alone figger out which end of a wrench ta’ grab!” He shook his head, then stared at the deck. “I’ll admit it. I’m tired, Skipper.”
“This entire crew is inexperienced, Chief Gilbert,” Lelaa replied pleasantly. “It is fortunate we have a core group such as yourself to help the others along.”
“Well, ain’t that my point? They ain’t gettin’ much along, even with all my helpin’!”
Lelaa didn’t know Isak and Tabby, the other “Mice,” but she knew that while Gilbert might be a font of engineering wisdom, the tap was perpetually closed to a trickle. Despite his newfound ability to communicate, he still couldn’t pass ideas and technical information very well. His division seemed eager enough to learn, as far as she could tell, but Gilbert was, frankly, a crummy teacher. Considering the situation threatened to suppress her fine mood. It was a serious issue. So far, most of Maaka-Kakja ’s machinery had functioned flawlessly. It was overengineered to a point of almost gross inefficiency, after all. But what if? They were steaming toward certain eventual combat, and they had little real notion of the Dom defenses or domestic capability. All they’d seen so far was what the Doms could do at the end of a very long rope-like they would soon be.