"Attack!" With drawn pistol held high in the air, South Dakota led the last assault of the day on the scattered and beleaguered Abyssal forces still left in the 'cauldron', an expanse of sea surrounded by small islands of jagged, steep cliffs and mountains and rocky, coral reefs.
Under tremendous supporting fire from her sister, the delightful Alabama, and her own sixteen-inch triples on her shoulders and side, she charged into the fray. Protecting her flanks s were the dashing cruisers Minneapolis and Astoria, both fresh cruisers out of the reserve fleet.
The torn Abyssal ships, mostly light cruisers and destroyers, could not withstand such a renewed attack, but carried on firing at the advancing group nevertheless. But their fatigue, as Astoria noticed, meant their shells flew mostly overhead or well short. A blast from her trained triple-eights blew apart a floundering destroyer close by. With a vicious snap of its black, jagged jaws the shark-like craft keeled over and sank.
All the while South Dakota's nine powerful sixteen-inchers tore through the lightly-armoured ships before her. One well-placed broadside cut a clean swathe through two struggling He-class, while another shell caught a To-class cruiser dead-on and it disappeared under a huge welter of water. It was a slaughter, a bloody slaughter – but very little love was lost on both sides.
The Abyssals, seeing the awesome display of firepower from the four attacking ships, began to falter - then finally, some began to turn, then some began to sail away as hard as they could. But South Dakota, through a gap in the thick cordite smoke, saw the less-hardy Abyssals racing for safety. She grabbed her radio mike.
"Carrier Group! Showtime!" she sang.
Fifty kilometers away, behind the three flotillas of destroyers and the Cruiser Division that screened them, the carriers of Task Force 58.3, in perfect synchronization, shot their squadrons into the air. Gambier Bay, Independence, and Wasp lifted their long, flight-deck launchers into the air and in seconds a buzzing, droning cloud of dive-bombers and screening fighters filled the air and lifted itself away to the east, towards the real battle.
But one other carrier did not lift her deck towards the sky in an offering to the battle. She carried herself aloof, distancing herself from the other carriers. She was dressed in a grey folding cap over her cropped grey hair, a grey battledress with a grey skirt with storm-grey stockings – everything about her seemed to emphasize the colour of the ghost. It was a running rumour and joke of the girls at Luzon that she could turn invisible at will, and could strike even more ferocity than the cantankerous Fast Carrier Force commander, her sister Hornet.
Her name, of course, was Enterprise.
"Enterprise, what are you doing?" Wasp asked, as she sent the last of her planes on their way. "Battle Force is asking-"
"I know that." There was a chill in Enterprise's voice that stopped Wasp dead in her tracks. "That should be more than enough for the first wave. We're taking a big risk-" She stopped, and sniffed at the air. "Hell. Looks like I was right after all," she murmured.
"What do you mean-" Wasp was cut short as Enterprise, with one fluid motion, lifted her launcher to the air. But she faced the north, not the east. A stream of Corsairs shot out of the launcher, lifting their gull-wings high up to the scattered cloud layer.
"What on earth-" Before Gambier Bay could finish her sentence a flaming dark shape shot out of the clouds, streaking straight down into the water. It crashed into the sea, sending up a plume of black smoke, a tall exclamation mark against the blue sky,
"Abyssals above! All ships, high-angle fire, now!" Enterprise shouted, and instantly the massed group of screening ships let loose a thunderous storm of tracers and flak, shooting up at the unseen Abyssal aircraft. Enterprise's tiny Corsairs manoeuvred in and out of the cloud like sharks angling for kills while an intermittent rain of flaming, black shapes fell from the fray above.
"Gee, Big E sure is sharp today," Gambier Bay muttered. "Wonder what other tricks she's got up her sleeve?"
"Never you mind," Enterprise snapped back. Gambier Bay, surprised, looked away hurriedly. Independence looked mildly their way. Wasp gazed into the distance, unconcerned with the drama around her.
The fleeing Abyssals never had a chance.
As South Dakota advanced through the smoke systematically mopping up, the Abyssals knew the game was up. But before even the last ones who realised this could turn into the retreat, the buzzing cloud of bombers from Carrier Group shot out of the low cloud atop the steep mountains of the 'cauldron'.
Screeching dive bombers came down like a furious avalanche raining a torrent of armour-piercing bombs while buzzing torpedo bombers dipped low and caught the beleaguered enemy neatly in a two-pronged attack. Not one Abyssal ship survived the furious air strike.
Soon the 'cauldron' became a graveyard of wrecked Abyssals, the stench of otherworldly machine oil hanging in the now-calm air.
"And that just about does it for today," South Dakota commented, casting a sweeping, dismissive look over the forest of thin black plumes of smoke over the oily sea.
"Thank God!" Alabama cried, sidling up next to South Dakota. She, like her sister, wore the short-length battleship-grey sleeved dress and long black stockings. But unlike the prim and proper South Dakota, Alabama's hazelnut hair flowed freely in the breeze, and she wore many navy-blue ribbons tied to her sleeves and machinery. "I'm itching for a bath. How about you, Dakota?"
The other battleship rested her turrets, letting the servo motors cool down and the cooling barrels drop limply down. She stretched, and yawned lightly. "Guess I might turn in early tonight. It's been a long- Ow!"
South Dakota doubled over, clutching her arm – the angry weal of a shell impact showed on her forearm.
"Dakota! Are you alright? Are you alright?" Alabama rushed over, and had the wound under her scrutiny in seconds. Minneapolis and Astoria looked away, suppressing their grins – Alabama was known to be overzealous when it came to injuries.
"I'm fine, Alabama!" Dakota tried to brush her sister off, and glimpsed Astoria to the side, trying her hardest not to laugh.
The radio crackled into life on Alabama's holder. "Carrier Force to Battle Force, requesting withdrawal to safe zone." Wasp, the flagship of Carrier Force, was particularly sticky about security.
"Carrier Force, permission granted," Alabama responded steadily. Then she turned back to the wound on Dakota's arm, drawing near enough to lick it.
"Hey, hey, hey! Stop it, sister!" Dakota squirmed out of her sister's dogged grip, detaching herself from the overwhelming concern.
"Let me just clean it up for you," Alabama whispered, but to Dakota she had all the charm of a sea-slug. She backed away, tensing up, as if to bolt for her life. Abyssals or her lustful sister? She'd rather take the Abyssals.
At that moment Minneapolis burst out laughing, unable to contain it any longer. Astoria followed, and the two cruisers clutched each other for support, barely remaining upright in their laughter.
Alabama glared at them sulkily, but South Dakota smiled in relief. Their laughter might just have saved her from a particularly embarrassing scene.
Hot water streamed down from the shower head as South Dakota allowed herself to be drenched, rendering her fine golden hair sleek in the cascade. She could feel the various bruises and scorch marks be robbed of their sting and the pain washing away from her.
Raising her worn arms towards the shower head she let the water trickle down every part of her, leaving no crevice untouched by water. She was so engrossed in this task that she failed entirely to notice a brief shadow flit across the brightly-lit stall.
Neither did she notice the sly hand that slowly parted the shower curtains, until it was far too late – with a strangled scream she found herself pinned against the wall by none other than Alabama, no doubt attempting to restore their moment earlier.
"Alabama!" South Dakota yelled, but no-one answered her cry. She struggled against the tightening grip around her shoulders, but to no avail.
"Come on, dear sister, let's get you all fixed up now," Alabama cooed, inching closer under the curtain of searing water. Even though they were sisters and this might all be a bit of harmless sisterly love, Dakota thought this was way out of line.
"Stop it, sister! What if someone comes in-"
"Already taken care of." There was a coolness in her sister's sultry voice that Dakota could only take it to be the truth. They were alone, and unless she did something, she might have to submit to her sister's desires-
In a sweeping movement she swung her hand like a knife, aiming for Alabama's side. Surprised and shocked by the blow, Alabama's grip loosened and Dakota was free to push back.
Alabama, stung by the pain, stumbled and fell onto the tiled floor. "Y-you hit me," she stammered, her voice already full of hurt. Looking at the pitiful scene South Dakota was almost immediately consumed by regret – she didn't mean it, yet her sister seemed about to emotionally collapse at the very memory of the blow.
"I'm sorry," she murmured, crouching down and crawling forwards to wipe the tears forming up on Alabama's face with her hand. "I didn't mean to-"
But before South Dakota could draw any closer the sound of rapid, muffled footsteps made both of them look towards the door. Swiftly getting up and donning on a nearby towel, South Dakota made for the door. Alabama followed – the seduction of her sister would have to come later.
South Dakota opened the door by a slight gap, allowing her to look out into the corridor. Poking her head out she saw a flurry of Gearing-classes pass her by, racing for the exit. Astoria followed them, in her nightgown of red polka-dots.
"Astoria!" Dakota commanded. The running cruiser skidded into a halt and hastily saluted. "What's going on? Why are you out of bed?"
"Arrival, ma'am," Astoria answered primly.
"Who?"
"New task force, Seventh Fleet, ma'am."
"Seventh? Who's commanding it?"
" Iowa, ma'am."
The mention of the most powerful battleship in United States Navy stirred something inside Dakota. She gulped, remembering her last encounter with that great avatar of naval power. Iowa? she thought, a sense of dread rising within her. What the hell is this?
"Carry on, Astoria." With that quick dismissal the cruiser saluted, and ran to follow the destroyers.
Dakota closed the door, and turned to find Alabama sitting on the bench, waiting expectantly.
"Get changed, quickly," Dakota ordered, the old business tone coming back to her as her mind raced ahead, formulating a plan of action as quickly as she strode over to the clothes lockers.
"What's going on, sister?" Alabama asked as Dakota pulled on her underwear. She watched as Dakota slid on her skirt, white blouse and then don on her white officer's pea jacket. With practised precision she tied up her sleek golden hair back into an imposing bun, tying it together with a blue ribbon.
"There isn't much time to explain. Come out once you're done and see for yourself!" Adjusting her cap one last time she ran for the door – in another second she was gone.
"Dakota! Wait!" Alabama pleaded, but her sister was already long gone. "Dakota… I only wanted…" she murmured in disappointment. With a drawn-out sigh she rose, and turned towards her own locker.
