Have an Omake to Old Iron's "A Certain Lady" Omake! This one's called "Ping..."
"Ping..." Part 1
Submarine Albacore was
throughly confused. The last thing she remembered was… was the feeling of saltwater pouring into her though a hole torn in her pressure hull. She must've hit a mine while she was lurking off the Japanese Home Islands. As deaths go, it wasn't the
worst way to go. She'd gone down with a kill-tally a mile long, she'd seen her duty though to her end. Albacore felt a small measure of pride at that.
But all the pride in the world didn't change the fact that she died. Died. Past tense. She should be a crumpled, imploded hulk resting on the bottom at the moment. Why the hell was she still seaworthy? And more to the point,
how was she having this discussion
Albacore was a Submarine. A
Gato class attack boat, the best of its kind in the world! But even a
Gato couldn't think for itself. Right? The submarine couldn't remember thinking for herself before. But on the other hand, she had
memories. She remembered tense stalks as her crew guided her into position for a perfect shot. She remember it like she was
there, like she'd taken part as more than just a vessel of steel at her skipper's command.
But there was time for that later. Last she checked, there was a war on.
Albacore glanced up. The water was shallow enough to tell she was inside some kind of building. A pool, maybe? Some new kind of subpen? Whatever it was, the enormous flag just visible though the water proved it was some kind of American structure. It should be perfectly safe to surface.
But some seventh sense tingled in the back of her conning to- in the back of her mind. Something wasn't right, she just
knew it. Something beyond a sunken, lifeless submarine coming to life.
She leveled off at periscope depth, her body motionless except for the tiniest movements of her slender feet as she slowed to a crawl. Once she was sure her periscope wouldn't kick up a wake, she brought it up just above the gentle waves.
And promptly shat bricks.
Standing at the opposite end of the building, right on the grated metal walkway that must've served as a 'shore' was a Sendai-class light cruiser. Albacore would've recognized that hull shape anywhere. The traffic-cone orange dress didn't hurt either. There was at least a hundred sailors standing behind her, staring expectantly at a spot a few yards ahead of Albacore's position too. But the cruiser was the only ship that mattered.
Sendai-class cruisers had depth charges. And they'd all
been sunk. What the hell? What in any hell?
But Albacore hadn't racked up her impressive kill tally by panicking at the first sign of trouble. The Jap was just staring into the water with that taciturn 'inscrutable oriental' gaze. She was
searching for a target, but she hadn't acquired it.
Time for the submarine to
fade. Albacore very slowly flooded her ballast tanks, setting her planes at a gentle five degree angle as she backed away to the pool bottom. She was low on fuel, but her batteries were at full charge, and she had enough air to last at least a day on the bottom. She could be patient.
Up until she got the chance to ram a spread of Mark Fourteens past the orange skirt and right up her treacherous Jap ass. Albacore smiled. Smiled like a shark. Revenge is a dish best served cold. And it's very cold at depth.
The Jap would get bored. They always did, usually long before their job was even close to done. In the mean time, Albacore would just have to find ways to pass the time without making any noise.
The Submarine had settled down on the tiled bottom when it hit her. She was sitting cross-legged. She had
legs now! She
almost broke noise discipline and let an audible gasp out of her throat. Legs! What else did she have?
She felt her crew scrambling though her cramped interior, hunting for any manuals or data sheets they could bring her. It was a
really weird experience.
Not quite as weird as having
legs, or
hips—the submarine smiled as she settled her hands on her broad swimmer's hips, or a
waist—she wasn't vain, but she
did have some pretty stellar curves to her—, or…
Albacore's smile died as she realized her bust wasn't anything to write home about. And she'd been on such a roll too! Oh well, she was a Submariner, she was used to having to make do with what she had—or could 'liberate'. Well, as used to it as a girl who'd only been alive for less than an hour could be.
At least her swimsuit was cute. A dark-gray one-piece that hugged what curves she had as well as Albacore could expect. Ocean-gray patches on her sides and around what bust she had helped define her curves. It had to be the most fashionable version of Measure 10 ever developed!
It might even have been stealthy if "NAVY" wasn't stenciled down each side. But of
course there was something wrong with her swimsuit, the silent service never got
anything nice.
But Albacore didn't mind. She'd work with what she had, it's what she always did. At the very least, her scruffy, dirty-blond fauxhawk looked pretty cool. And it was short enough that it wouldn't get caught in her screws of planes. Net positive!
Albacore closed her eyes and opened her ears. She could still hear the hum of the Sendai-class cruiser idling on the shore. No matter, she'd wait her out. The submarine lay back against the poolfloor. She'd practiced sleeping without sacrificing situational awareness until she'd turned it into a high art.
She could wait, wait until sundown when she could slink out of here and find out what the
hell was going on.
- - - - - - -
On another note, I was reading Dan van der Vat's excellent
The Pacific Campaign and I came across this passage:
Early that morning, the convoy came under attack from the USS Sturgeon, a submarine which fired a salvo of torpedoes and was rewarded with some satisfying explosions. These prompted the facetious signal "Sturgeon no longer virgin." As no Japanese ship was actually penetrated, this claim was premature. So was the ejaculation of large numbers of torpedoes that night by the four old but dashing destroyers of Rear Admiral William A. Glassford's Task Force 5, US Asiatic fleet, alerted by air reconnaissance from Java.
Lewdmarines are lewd.
