“Number tree gun aft iz out of aaction, an half the twenty-five mounts is wrecked!”
Guns one and two barked and jolted back. Acrid smoke filled the pilothouse through the broken panes, and Okada couldn’t see if they had any effect. He lurched toward the door to the bridgewing, but the wood was shattered and he jerked the remains from the hinges and stepped outside. Smoke swirled, and instead of the cold wind, he felt the heat of flames. Looking aft, he saw his ship was burning amidships, and the portside lifeboat was scattered around the base of the funnel near a gaping hole that belched exhaust gas. He clutched the rail with one hand and stared through his binoculars.
Hidoiame was hurt! She had her own small fire forward of the bridge, and the forward turret had never turned toward them. It must be damaged. The aft stack was leaking smoke, low, and more smoke gushed from a pair of large holes aft. Whatever damage she’d taken didn’t seem to have harmed her engines, though, and she was still accelerating.
“Left full rudder!” Okada roared over his shoulder. He had to keep as many guns in action as possible, and prevent his enemy from coming around behind him, where only one remained. He’d been right to fear the twenty-fives, he realized. The damn things were tearing his ship apart, and it looked like he had only one similar mount remaining with which to reply. Even now the twin guns kept up a withering fire that probed and detonated around Hidoiame ’s bridge like bursting fireflies. His number four gun was still firing; he could hear it, even if he couldn’t see through the smoke. A blinding flash bloomed directly in front of his own bridge, sending the remaining glass flying among a chorus of cries. He wiped at blood that suddenly blurred his vision and saw corpses strewn around number two, leaving only a single, stunned ’Cat standing there. Number one barked again, and he spun to see the result.
There was a small flare of light, wrapped in a white cloud that looked like steam, amidships of Hidoiame. For an instant, he felt triumphant-until there was another flash just like the first and he saw the long, concave splashes that cracked the swell at the destroyer’s side, one after another. Sato Okada’s blood turned to ice and he thought he felt his heart shatter in his chest. The flashes hadn’t been fire and steam-they’d been torpedo impulse charges!
“Full astern!” he screamed. “Right full rudder!” Even as he gave the order, he knew it wouldn’t matter. The range was now just a little more than a thousand yards, and the two Type 93 torpedoes-weapons of devastating power and reliability that he was all too familiar with-would arrive in half a minute. It would take longer than that just to reverse the engine. If the range was greater, slowing the ship might spoil the solution, but now only the turn could possibly help-but they’d already been turning to port… “Correction!” he shouted, more controlled. “Rudder amidships! Continue full ahead!” All he could do was pray Mizuki Maru would pass the point Hidoiame ’s torpedo men had calculated for their weapons to intersect her path. With so little time, the chances of that were slim.
Another impact forward sent the crew of the number one gun sprawling, but most of them rose and returned to their posts, quickly sending another shell toward their tormentor. Okada lurched back into the pilothouse, where the talker was shouting a steady stream of damage reports, punctuated by the constant drumming and staccato explosions of those wicked twenty-fives. A gout of hot steam gushed through the doorway as something ruptured amidships, and Mizuki Maru staggered sickeningly and began losing way. For just an instant, there was near-total silence on the bridge, and Okada’s eyes swept the gazes that met him.
“I have failed,” he said simply, brutally. “My oath is spent and hollow. Wasted.” He paused. “Brace yourselves, my samurai,” he breathed softly. He turned to the talker. “Have the signalman transmit code letter G with our current position… and my apologies, if he has the time.”
The Type 93, twenty-four-inch torpedo was, hands down, the best weapon of its type in service with any navy in the world when Sato Okada crossed the mysterious gulf aboard Amagi nearly two years before. Almost 30 feet long, weighing close to 3 tons, and blessed with a speed close to 60 knots and a 1080-pound warhead, it was designed to rupture the thick armor and break the backs of battleships. Probably only desperation, or possibly panic, had induced Kurita to waste two such precious, irreplaceable weapons against Mizuki Maru, so in that sense, Okada felt a sudden, perverse surge of pride that his ship and crew had forced him to resort to such a drastic measure. But the disproportionate expenditure was on a scale with shooting a beer can with a high-velocity rifle.
Ultimately, the sudden course change, the heavy sea, or the haste with which the torpedoes were launched caused the first weapon to miss its target, speeding invisibly past, mere yards behind Mizuki Maru ’s rudder. That was irrelevant, because seconds later the next torpedo slammed into her side and detonated with a stupendous dark geyser that dwarfed the ship-and blew the entire stern, aft of the engine room, completely off. Steam and black soot vomited skyward from the stack and gushing fuel oil ignited with a snarling rush.
Mizuki Maru stalled as if her legs had been torn from her hips-which might as well have been the case. Her stern, propeller shaft, and most of her machinery was already nothing but mangled wreckage plummeting to the bottom of the sea. A widening field of burning oil coated the waves around her and lapped at the boat deck, already dipping low.
Sato Okada heaved himself from the deck, practically climbing the aft bulkhead. His left leg didn’t feel right at all and he wondered if the concussion had cracked it. The helmsman slid backward and impacted the bulkhead with a cry as the murdered ship settled quickly aft, and her dripping bow left the tumultuous sea and reached for the sky. A naked, oil-soaked ’Cat crawled in through the shattered doorway, wide, bright eyes questing in dazed confusion amid black, matted fur.
The dying roar of Mizuki Maru was terrific. Tortured steel groaned and tore with dismal shrieks of agony, and the wooden deck cracked and splintered like rifle fire. Heavy machinery tumbled loose and crashed down deep in her bowels as the bow continued to rise until it was virtually perpendicular. Dimly, Sato Okada saw the number one gun, some of its crew still clinging to it, rip loose and fall against the forward bulkhead of the pilothouse. The bulkhead smashed inward under the impact, and girders pierced and pinned him.
I failed! He railed silently at himself through the waves of agony. So long he’d shunned the friendship of the Alliance, and then only when he personally was affected did he act. Shinya had been right all along. The day did come that my honor demanded more of me-but my pride held me back until it was too late, and my arrogance made me promise what I could not achieve. I failed not only the Alliance that deserved my allegiance, but my crew-my people — who deserved my protection!
Suddenly, a bloody, blackened face appeared before his eyes. It was the mad cook! Okada realized with searing shame that he’d failed him too-perhaps more than anyone-and he didn’t even know the man’s name!
“Come, my lord,” the cook said in a soft, gruff voice. “I must get you free!”
Just then, the boiling, flaming torrent of water and oil burst into the pilothouse, and Mizuki Maru quickly slid, blowing and booming, beneath the frigid, tossing waves of the iron gray sea.
CHAPTER 1
USS Walker
Central Pacific
February 22, 1944
The sea was brisk beneath a bright blue sky, marred only by cotton-candy streamers of white. No land was visible in any direction, and the one thing that might catch the eye of some far-ranging, broad-winged lizard bird was a lonely wake that stretched behind a battered, rust gray shape pitching tiredly across the long, deep swells. Such a creature might turn to join several others of its kind, seemingly effortlessly coasting along, pacing the strange ship. The flyers stayed off either beam, avoiding the hint of foul-smelling smoke blurring the tops of two of the four funnels standing high above the narrow hull. Occasionally, one of the lizard birds dropped back and snatched a morsel from the foaming wake, but most maintained almost unerring stations as if shepherding the exhausted ship along.