“Nice fishies, Mr. Sandison. Do they work?”
“God, I hope so,” Bernie whispered, then raised his voice. “The torpedo division will assume their posts!”
Dennis was surprised to see Ronson join a crew beside one of the weapons.
“We’re trying three kinds,” Bernie explained. “Two are reverse-engineered Mk-14s like that wadded-up fish we carried around so long. The only difference is one’s hot and the other’s cold. You’re probably thinking the ship’s sailed on that one, but we’re not talking the same ranges here-yet. If the cold fish can do the job for now, it’ll save a lot of effort.”
Dennis wasn’t sure exactly which ship Bernie meant. He didn’t much care about torpedoes and didn’t trust them. He firmly believed you should never send a fish where you could send a bullet, and though nobody knew what kind of ships the Grik were working on, he hadn’t seen anything on this world since Amagi that needed a torpedo. His attention was already focused on something else.
“The other one uses the same gyro, Obry gear, everything,” Bernie continued, unaware he’d lost his audience. “But Ronson talked me into letting him try an electric motor and batteries in place of the air flask.” He shook his head. “I think it’ll work eventually, but I’m afraid our batteries just aren’t there yet.”
“The only thing I care about is if the damn things’ll go off,” Silva said absently but darkly.
“Yeah, they’ll go off,” Bernie assured him. “They’re contact exploders all the way, no horsing around.”
“Good,” Silva said, still distracted.
About forty yards from the torpedo mount, on the old ramp itself, was Walker ’s glisteningly restored number four, four-inch-fifty gun. Mounted beside it, bolted to a similar concrete pedestal, was an almost exact replica of it, except the mount was taller and more reminiscent of the Japanese 4.7s they’d salvaged. Bernie had told Silva to expect it, but he hadn’t had time to come down and see the thing. He’d been too busy familiarizing himself with the small arms. Now he knew he truly was looking at a dual-purpose four-inch-fifty!
“I’ll be derned,” he said. “Ain’t that a pretty thing? What did you make her out of?”
“All our modern weapons are made of Jap steel, from Amagi.” Bernie shrugged. “Not sure how good it is, but it’s better than what we can make so far. Somebody calculated that we salvaged enough steel off her to make every single rifle and pistol used by everybody on both sides in the Great War. I find that hard to believe, but there’s a lot-and we can use local iron in projectiles and nonordnance applications. We are making some steel of our own now, like I said, and we’re doing it by the book-but there’s no way to know if it’s really worth a damn, since Laney’s the closest thing we’ve got to a metallurgist. He worked in a steel mill for a while before he joined the Navy.”
“Got fired, I bet,” Silva quipped.
Bernie shrugged. “Probably. I wish Elden hadn’t got himself killed. He really knew stuff.” He brightened. “Spanky does too, but until he gets back, Laney’s the expert. We’ve had to do a lot of guessing and experimenting with heat treating and stuff.”
“I know heat treating-on small parts an’ springs an’ such,” Silva said, and Bernie glowered.
“All the more reason why…” He stopped and sighed. Silva had long ago taught what he knew about making springs and case hardening. That knowledge was widespread now. Silva knew nothing about making steel for heavy ordnance. “Well, for now, the new breechloading guns like that one will still use the black-powder shells we’ve been making, to keep pressures down. They’re basically wrought iron-or wrought Jap steel.”
“It is a four-inch-fifty? Why didn’t you standardize on the four-point-seven? We’ve actually got more of those scattered around, and I guess you could eventually convert the four-inch-fifties.”
“We thought of that,” Bernie admitted. “We’ve got salvaged Jap gun directors and everything, but production on ‘our’ shells was already so far along and performance being so close, we figured it would be easier to line the four-point-sevens when the time came. You got us on this lining kick with your Allin-Silvas, and it made sense.”
“Sure,” Silva nodded. “And you can reline ’em when the bores are shot out.”
“You got it.”
The rumble of the crowd softened when Adar, High Chief and Sky Priest of Baalkpan and Chairman of the Grand Alliance, stood from his seat at the center of the bleachers. Near silence was achieved when he raised his arms. As always, he still wore his old “sky-priest suit” as the humans called it. It was deep purple with a scattering of embroidered silver stars across the shoulders and hood, which today was thrown back, revealing his gray fur that glistened like silver in the morning sun. Beside him, Alan Letts stood as well, his whites almost painful to look at. Other high-ranking members of the Alliance flanked them, and also stood as a group.
“Who’s the skinny guy there by Mr. Letts?” Silva asked. “In the officer suit.”
“New guy,” Bernie replied. “Name’s Herring. Commander Herring, he made a point of rubbing in at first. He came in from Manila with a couple China Marines, an Aussie, and some Dutchman Colonel Mallory grabbed up. They were off Mizuki Maru, poor devils. That one was ONI, and Letts tapped him for the same job around here, once he decided he was on the level.”
“Our very own snoop brain, huh?”
“Looks like.”
“A fella like that might come in handy,” Silva probed.
“He might,” Bernie answered, noncommittally. “I’ve only talked to him a few times. Kind of an odd, Ivy League sort. The first time I saw him, he was poking around the powder-blending tower, asking a bunch of screwy questions, and he hadn’t even joined up yet!”
“What about the Grumpys? They goin’ to Alden?”
“The Marines?” Bernie asked, rightly suspecting another one of Silva’s odd, often unexplainable nicknames. “I snatched one of them, a corporal, for Ordnance. He’s kind of a snot-like a Marine version of Laney-but he earns his keep. I think Letts is sending the other one, a gunny named Horn, with you.” Bernie looked around. “He might be around here somewhere, or maybe he’s at the drill field.”
“Gunny Horn,” Silva said, brows knitting. “ Arnie Horn? Big guy, black hair?”
“I don’t remember his first name, but that sounds like him. I swear, Silva! Did you know everybody on the China Station?”
“Most everybody that’d been there a while,” Dennis replied, reflecting.
“Well… if he’s who you think he is, is he a problem?”
“No. Shouldn’t be. Arnie’s a right guy. I just figgered he croaked-and I owe him one.”
“One what?”
“Oh, nothin’, sir.”
Adar began to speak and his voice carried in that strange, Lemurian way. “We are gathered here, at the first Torpedo Day celebration, to behold the latest wonders wrought by our fine technicians to smite the evil foes of peace and freedom! Even as those foes grow in numbers, so does our capacity to slay them!” A thunderous cheer ensued that was quieted only when Adar raised his arms again. “Today we will view the performance of new weapons that the forces of the evil Dominion or even the Ancient Grik Enemy cannot possibly be prepared to face, and some of them are already in the hands of our precious troops, or en route to them. Their force will be felt!”
Another great cheer built and slowly died away.
“Yet we will also see the future! Experimental weapons that are not yet ready for battle, but soon will be! Bear in mind that as the day progresses, you may see some few contrivances that do not perform as hoped. Do not be disheartened by such setbacks or scorn those who suffer them, but honor the effort and remember: the greatest triumphs are built on the adversities encountered and defeated beforehand!”
There was some laughter mixed with the cheering this time, and Bernie’s face turned red. “All right, Silva. You’re almost up. Get ready. I’ve got to oversee the final preparation on my ‘fishies.’”