Chapter 12
Home Away From Home
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27 July, 2015
Sea of Japan
Matt stood on Walker's bridge wing once more, watching his DesRon shake down into cruising formation around North Carolina and the convoy they were escorting home.
"Uhm, Skipper?" Walker asked, tugging his hand. "When we get to Pearl, can we get my hull scraped? Please?"
Matt looked down at Walker, and raised an eyebrow. "I suppose so, but why?"
She blushed, scratching her leg. "It's, uh, been a while." Matt chuckled, and she glared at him, "S'not funny!" she growled as she scratched frantically.
Matt lifted her into his arms and closed his hands around hers. "Don't scratch, it'll just make it worse." he admonished before smiling at her, "And it is, a little. We're all so wrapped up in the magic of all this that we forgot the basics." Walker flushed brightly and squirmed free, then ran over to the railing, watching their DesRon.
---
26 August, 2015
Pearl Harbor, Hawaii
It was a somber fleet that entered Pearl Harbor two weeks later. For some, like North Carolina, Arizona's wreck was an old, painfully familiar sight. Others, like Walker and Captain Reddy, had never seen the wreck, or the memorial later erected over it. Still others, such as many of the Japanese ships, had never seen Pearl.
Slowly, they approached the place where it had all began, somber in their dress whites. Every ship's deck had been scrubbed to eye-watering shine, and their sides were freshly painted, splinter camo geometrically perfect and gleaming. Even the eternally bombastic Bradford seemed subdued as he stood by the railing in a simple tuxedo. As they came down the channel, the massive Iowa anchored behind the monument tracked them with her directors, smoke curling lazily from her stacks. An elementally simple message. I stand vigilant.
Then, a mere quarter-mile closer to the base, the bowed marble monument, immortalizing in stone the place Arizona's calamitous destruction had shaken worlds.
Matt watched Arizona's monument slowly disappear behind Ford island and looked down at Walker, resplendent in the old, well-cared for whites she'd found… somewhere. The wreck in the water wasn't their Arizona. Boat's son hadn't died a few hundred feet from that ship. But it was all too discomfitingly similar anyway. With an almost physical effort, Matt forced his thoughts away from the events of that long-past day.
"Sure has changed a lot since I was last here."
He pointed to one of the enormous modern destroyers -the size of the cruisers they'd known.
"I think one of the Fletchers I expected to be assigned to was over there. And my old girl, Champlin, over there with all the other destroyers." He gestured further astern. "The cruisers were moored over there… and Utah and some battleships were leaving for gunnery practice when I left for Manila." He looked towards the docks and Laffey's lean, powerful silhouette. "I guess we're about to see what else has changed."
Walker scratched her chin. "I keep expecting to see the Royal Navy flag all over the place, and Jenks or one of his people waiting to greet us at the Navy Pier."
Matt shook his head. "No, the sea level is too high. It's definitely Pearl, not New Ireland."
Walker's face grew pensive. "Doesn't feel like I expected it to. Not at all."
"Hrm."
They stood silently for a time, stewing in their thoughts as Walker slid up against the pier next to Laffey. Matt started down the gangway. "Doesn't feel like a homecoming." He squeezed her shoulder. "It shouldn't after thirty years, but it's definitely strange."
----
Atago walked up the landing ramp towards the redheaded heavy cruiser waiting there and the enormous Des Moines moored besides her. This is not, she mused, how I expected to arrive here. As she walked towards Wichita and Salem, she noticed two figures on Salem's bow, one male, one female, clearly in the middle of a heated argument. She wondered if they realized how well their voices carried.
As she approached Wichita, the American cruiser casually waved without turning away from the bickering duo on Salem's bow.
"Yo. Come for the show?"
Atago blinked. "The… show?"
Wichita glanced towards her, red eyes gleaming with amusement. "Salem flirting with her boyfriend, duh." She pointed towards the man. "That's Lieutenant Commander Harkness. He's in charge of our docks, modernizations, and getting NAVSEA to give us what we need."
"Aren't they… arguing?"
Wichita grinned. "Oh yeah. They're really into it, too."
Atago looked at her askance. "About what?"
"They think there's a train fault with her forward three-inch fifties. He thinks it's the mount wiring, and wants to pull and replace it. She thinks it's the director wearing out, and wants it rebuilt. I think they want an excuse to fight."
Atago's frown deepened. "That doesn't explain why you called it flirting."
Wichita giggled. "They've been having this argument for weeks. And lemme tell ya a secret. Mark fifty-seven directors are real easy to diagnose, and so are Mark thirty-three mounts."
Atago rubbed her face. "I will never understand Americans." But she smiled as she did.
Wichita roared a laugh. "Oh, I like you!" She turned to face Atago and stuck out a hand. "USS Wichita. Pleased to meet ya."
Atago took the offered hand and shook it. "Thank you." She giggled. "Now, is there any way you might be convinced to show a tired old heavy cruiser to a mess and a bed?"
Wichita made a show of bowing deeply. "Why of course, milady!"
---
Matt walked up Laffey's gangway and over to the pair of legs sticking out of an access panel. A tall, muscular teenager with a massive burn scar rendering the tattoo on her left shoulder illegible dropped out of the access panel and tossed him a casual salute and a cocky grin. "Sir."
"Laffey."
He took a moment to look around. The veteran destroyer was bristling with armament. Depth charges, anti-aircraft guns, and what looked like a forward firing mortar abeam the second five-inch mount. It seemed one couldn't take two steps without walking into one weapon or another.
"Know how to use all this?"
She smiled broadly, displaying gleaming white teeth that seemed perhaps a tad sharper than they had any right to be. "And how, sir!"
"Know how to use it as part of a division?"
"Would have really sucked in Korea if I didn't."
Matt snorted. He'd read her service record.
"I didn't ask if your crew knew how, Laffey. I asked if you did. They took you on a lot of lone-wolf stunts."
She shrugged. "They were necessary. And Okinawa was radar picket duty, besides. Can't say I've had as much drill time or maneuver as I'd like, with all the time I've spent in yard hands, and I'd been retired forty years. But I can still hum the tune, even if I can't sing it as well as I could have back when I was with Sixth Fleet. And Maury and I have gotten some managed to get a couple days of maneuvers since she came back and the yard apes finally let go. It hasn't been as long for her."
She frowned pensively, rubbing her shoulder. "Speaking of teamwork, not sure how I feel working with DesDiv61, sir. I trust them not to shoot at us, but..." her voice trailed off, and she shook her head as she searched for the right words.
"They're not Navy."
Laffey shook her head. "No. They don't… Argh. Look. They're not fleet destroyers. Their ASW equipment is hot shit, their AA directors are salvo fire, not continuous, their guns are too small to work well for a destroyer fight, and Fubuki's the only one with a decent torpedo broadside, assuming the ducks could even get in position to launch theirs!"
Matt raised an eyebrow. "Their guns are barely smaller than Walker's."
"Yeah, and with a way smaller bursting charge. Look, I'm not insulting their guts, intelligence, or… team spirit, I guess. Really. They're just way overspecialized for air defense, and from what the Abyss has been tossing at us, they're going to be an anchor around our necks. This war's been surface actions and sub hunting, and the only aircraft they've got are occasional spotters and land-based bombers when we stray too close to one of their islands."
Matt nodded. He understood her concerns, and truthfully, they were things he should have considered when he'd taken command. Damnit. He was rustier than he'd thought. And, he admitted to himself, it's not like I wouldn't prefer more fleet destroyers myself. But if he'd always gotten what he wanted, he'd have been facing Amagi off Baalkpaan with more than two old thousand-ton destroyers with a single torpedo between them. But that left him with the problem of what to do with Laffey. He had to actually address her concerns. They were legitimate, and she had every right to bring them before him. Honesty, then.
"I understand your concerns, Laffey. And I'll admit, I'd be happier if they were a little less specialized, myself. That said, I don't expect the lack of carriers to continue forever. If nothing else, we have five, and they have to counter those somehow. And unfortunately, I don't think they're stupid enough to assume they can do it by just throwing enough battleships at the problem. In the meantime, it's our job to put them in the place where they can best contribute. Which is why we're going out on maneuvers tomorrow, to start working just how we can best coordinate those slow, undergunned ships with our faster division."
Laffey relaxed marginally.
"I will admit, however, that I had not considered anti submarine warfare. And since you brought the problem to my attention, I think it's only reasonable to ask you to help devise a solution. I'd like a proposal to bring DesDiv61 up to a reasonable proficiency in ASW on my desk by sundown tomorrow. Training, refits, whatever you think necessary. Consult with whoever you need."
Laffey squeaked in surprise, looking like she would rather clean out her bunkers with a toothbrush. There was, however, only one possible response. "Yes, sir."
---
Shimakaze squirmed uncomfortably under the weight of her diminutive division XO's gaze. She knew why she was here. The maneuvers en-route to Pearl had been a miserable failure, and she'd gone careening out of formation in all of them. And just to rub salt in the wound, Akizuki's division had been in view, practically dancing through their maneuvers with parade-ground perfection.
"Do you think you're a cruiser?" Walker asked calmly, leaning back in her chair and steepling her fingers. Shimakaze sputtered in shock. She'd expected, ranting, screaming, or shouting, not a calm, dismissive insult. Walker waited a moment, and continued. "You're acting like one. You're always raring to strike out on your own and fight independently, and it fucking shows. Like you are right now, you're a liability."
Shimakaze's temper flared. She knew she was a destroyer, damn it! "I'm not! You're all holding me back! You're too old and slow to understand!"
One of Walker's eyebrows raised fractionally, as Shimakaze belatedly realized she'd shouted at a superior. The old four-stacker's eyes gained a dangerous gleam, and her voice was as cold as the battered sword resting against the wall behind her. "True, I am old. I was launched fifty-eight years ago. Forty-nine years ago, Fubuki's launch made me obsolescent. Thirty years ago, I went up against new, modern destroyers, heavy cruisers, and a battlecruiser. Twenty-nine years ago, Mahan and I sunk Amagi. Twenty-eight years ago, I dueled Hidoiame to a standstill," she recounted, her voice taking an odd cadence as her eyes defocused and she slipped back into memory. "Twenty-five years ago, we won against the Grik and the Doms. And finally, fifteen years ago, I settled into retirement, granted a place of honor at the capital of the country my crew founded, offering the only service I could any longer, as a museum. Watching my beloved crew slowly grow old and die, and teaching those who they gave everything for what they sacrificed."
Her gaze refocused and she locked eyes with Shimakaze. "Seventy-two years ago, you launched. Seventy-one years ago, you helped evacuate Kiska. Seventy years ago, you were at Leyte Gulf, though you hardly participated in that one." Walker's voice turned deadly soft, "A month after that, you sank. Just two and a half years old." Shimakaze shrank into her chair.
"So tell me, Shimakaze. What did you learn in your thirty months of life that lets you be a loose cannon, and destroy my division's cohesion?" Shimakaze flinched, and hugged her legs against her chest. She hiccuped.
"I know! But I can't perform with a bunch of slow old ships! I'm worthless if I can't use my speed!" Shimakaze sniffled and rubbed her nose, then continued, "It's why I was built…"
Walker shook her head. "You really don't understand, do you? Your speed doesn't matter at all." Shimakaze's head snapped back in shock. Walker continued as if what she'd said was completely unremarkable, "Your speed doesn't matter because you don't matter. Yukikaze doesn't matter, Laffey doesn't matter, Maury doesn't matter, I don't matter, the Skipper doesn't matter." Walker tapped the desk for emphasis with each name, and continued. "The only thing that matters to anyone that matters is the Eighteenth Destroyer Division." She poked Shimakaze in the chest. "And the only way you can be worth your steel is if you're a contributing member of your destroyer division. And that means keeping pace with us when we move as a formation. Even if it means slowing down. Understand?"
Shimakaze hiccuped, and nodded. Walker smiled gently, and hopped out of her chair, collecting her sword on the way to the door. "Good. Why don't you take a couple days to think about it in your quarters?"
Shimakaze sniffled and slowly followed her out the door, stumbling down the halls towards the destroyer quarters.
---
Walker stopped in front of the door, checked the nameplate, took a deep breath, and slipped in. The man behind the desk looked up at her and raised an eyebrow.
"Yes?"
Walker fidgeted, rubbing her sword's handle with her fingers.
"Uhm. Commander Harkness? Sir?"
He nodded. "That's me. You're Walker, right? Our mysterious new arrival?"
She nodded. "Yes, sir. I, uh, need your help."
"What's the matter?" His tone was soft, welcoming, and he guided her into a surprisingly comfortable seat.
She fidgeted some more, turning bright red. "It's, uhm, embarrassing."
Harkness leaned back, waiting.
"CouldIgetmyhullscrapedplease," she blurted, looking down and away.
Harkness smiled. "Of course. We'll have to use a civilian dry dock, but I'll have it scheduled within an hour. And I've already let Captain Reddy know that you won't be available for maneuvers tomorrow while we complete your structural and mechanical survey."
Walker's eyes widened. "But we have to get the division shaken down! We still need a lot of practice!"
He reached out and ruffled her hair. "I know. But we need to know exactly what shape before we can design any refits and so we can have repair plans ready." He pushed a clipboard towards her, with a rough line drawing of her side by side with a standard Wickes. "You're pretty far from standard, kid. We've got to know how you differ from your sisters. Besides," he grinned, "we'll be done before you know it, and you can get back to whipping your division into shape."
Walker gave him a grudging nod, and trudged out of the office with her head hanging low. So this was why her crews hated doctors' offices so much.
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14 July, 2015
The shadowy figure behind the desk seethed. Two big, modern battlecruisers. Swatted like flies by a cripple and an antique! He slammed a fist into his desk and growled, suppressing his temper with difficulty as he stalked to the window, resting clawed hands on the sill and gazing out at the fleet resting at anchor. Looking on them with his own eyes calmed him as it always did, cooling the fires of his rage to mere coals. So what if he'd lost a pair of battlecruisers? He turned his gaze to the slips, and the corner of his mouth turned up. There were, after all, plenty more where those had come from.
Yes, he mused, gazing at the four new battlecruisers coming together in the slips and the four super-battleships coming together on the next set of ways over. Battleships such that the world had never seen. Today's losses were painful, to be certain, but far from catastrophic.
This time, with such a fleet, Kantai Kessen could not help but succeed. The Americans and their traitorous allies would attack, be destroyed, and then he would liberate the world from that vile nation of merchants.
Finally, the world would know the face of its savior!
