Chapter 50: Traffic Jam
Dawn broke over the tiny island of Adak Alaska. And with it broke any shred of peace and tranquility the inky black blanket of night might have offered. Suddenly, the air screamed with the sound of turbofan engines as massive potbellied transports—USAF C-17 Globemaster IIIs, thank you A is for Airplane—slammed themselves to the deck with all the grace of airgoing whales.
But for all their lack of grace, they came stuffed to bulkheads with goodies for the shipgirl horde descending on the unprepared island. For that, Tenryuu was thankful. The local markets were running noticeably low just feeding her and her kin- division. Her division. If just topping up their nearly-empty tanks and replenishing their torpedoes made that big a dent, she shuddered to think what Nagato and Musashi's repair feast would look like. Or Akagi's fighter-reconsutition gluttony.
But the light cruiser didn't have long to worry about her friends and their monstrous appetites. Less than an hour after the first cargo plane touched down, her new Alaskan friend Jake Lee frantically radioed in. She wasn't sure exactly what he radioed in, but she caught enough words to know that the battle fleet had finally arrived.
Her first order of business was getting the Akatsuki girls on-task in the kitchen. She could count on them and their faeries to follow the recipes with split-second precision, and she'd rather they didn't see Heermann's bleeding little body any longer than they had to.
Her own girls taken care off, Tenryuu bolted for the pier. One of the natives gave her a lift—she never was very good behind any wheel that wasn't connect to a rudder—, and she made it to the shore just as Kongou and her sister were making landfall.
"Kongou, Kirishima," Tenryuu stared up at the taller fast-battleships with her hands firmly planted on her hips. Normally, she'd defer to their judgment. But now was not a normal time. She knew what had to be done, they didn't. That put her in command. "Kitchen detail," she spoke with the loud directness normally reserved for ordering her division around. There wasn't an inch of space for argument in the light cruiser's tone.
Thankfully, neither battleship argued. Kongou gave a quick bow—the best she could do while sprinting in the direction Tenryuu pointed—and offered a resolute, "Of course, Dess!" Kirishima simply put a the scarily-focused face.
Tenryuu didn't let herself dwell. There were a lot of hungry, tired girls still left to attend to. Next up was… was Musashi.
The towering woman marched towards Tenryuu with the intentional gait of someone desperately trying to pretend they weren't limping. Her clothes—such as they were—were frayed and tattered. Her bandages were dark with ash and oil, and a bloody gash tore across her tightly-toned belly.
Tenryuu gulped. How could she, a humble light cruiser, a glorified destroyer with less firepower than anyone in her division, order around a batteship like that. But the sight of Jersey in the distance kicked Tenryuu back into gear. There was a scared little destroyer who needed her to keep her head on straight. "Musashi."
The snowy-haired battleship tilted her chin, her glasses glinting in the floodlights.
"Head to the Inn, the doc'll get you set up in a dock."
"No," Musashi puffed up her chest. Her bandages went as tight as her face as she tried to hide the jolt of pain shooting down her hull. "I, Musashi, would like to help in the kitchen."
"Damnit…" Tenryuu scowled. It wasn't like she had any actual authority over the towering super battleship… but she still liked to think she had some measure of control over her crazy new reality. "Musashi, you took torpedoes."
"And my crew is managing the damage," said Musashi. "Heermann needs the attention more than me."
"Fine," spat Tenryuu. "But you check in the minute he's done."
Musashi bowed in response, then walked off with her back still hunched over a little more than usual. The second she thought she was out of Tenryuu's sight, her forced gait faltered into a limp.
Tenryuu couldn't have helped if she wanted, not with only fifty-one thousand horsepower in her turbines. In any case, she more battleships to attend to.
Nagato and her sister trudged out of the water, both wearing the same expression. They were tired, they were hungry, they were hurting. But above all, they fumed with focused fury.
Tenryuu wouldn't be able to order them to go soak in a tub if she was the Admiral Himself. After a quick once-over to make sure there wasn't severe damage to their hulls—not that she was expecting any—she sent them off to go help with cooking.
A few moments later, Naka marched up to Tenryuu with a mixed bag of former IJN destroyers in tow. The Sendai-class cruiser had her face stuck in an obviously forced smile, and her voice was hoarse—probably from singing to keep the little destroyers occupied—when she reported in.
Tenryuu pointed Naka and her little kindergarten at the kitchen and moved on to the next mobile diaster she had to deal with. Carriers.
Ryuujou snapped off a salute while she awaited orders. Akagi, however, just started wandering towards the dining hall.
Tenryuu couldn't blame her. The fleet carrier had lost a huge chunk of her airwing in the battle. She had to be going insane with hunger by now. She wouldn't have been any use in the kitchen anyways. Akagi's 'cooking' always ended up in her belly before it actually reached the oven. The light cruiser just nodded at Ryuujou to follow Akagi's lead before turning to her next task.
Her last and hardest one of all.
Battleship New Jersey slogged her way up the icy pier with her clutch of destroyers and destroyer escorts in tow. Her face was a mask of resolved fury. Fury so intense it could only be expressed as utter tranquility. The eye in the middle of a raging hurricane.
Her mirrored shades glinted in the dawn glow, but they did little to hide the tear stains streaking down her chiseled features. Every step she took thundered against the pier with the weight of a thousand souls waiting… begging for Heermann's life. She seemed to move in slow motion as she made her way to Tenryuu with her little destroyer held against her breast.
Heermann wasn't even moving. Only the tiny wrinkles in Jersey's blood soaked shirt with each shallow breath suggested the tiny destroyer was even alive. Her face was buried in her flagship's soft chest, her little arms wrapped around her neck so tight her knuckles were white.
The twisted stumps that'd been her legs hung against Jersey's hip, oozing blood and oil against the battleship's pale skin.
Tenryuu didn't say a word. She couldn't. It could've been any one of her girls. She couldn't bear to think about what she'd feel. What Jersey had to be going though right now. Instead, she just motioned for Jersey to follow her to the docks.
—|—|—
Jersey was past rage. She was past fury and anger. She swam in an emotion she'd never felt before. One she desperately hoped she'd never feel again. Despair. Heermann… her little Heermann was bleeding out in her arms again. Because she hadn't been there when she needed her. Again. Heermann fought her tiny little heart out, she fought harder than a battleship. She'd never left her post, she'd stayed with her charge until the very end. Again.
And Jersey hadn't been there to protect her. Again. The battleship wanted to curl up in the tiniest, darkest corner she could find and cry until she just couldn't cry anymore. She thought this time around would be different. She'd had her second chance to redeem herself… and she blew it. She'd failed at the one thing she was built to do.
She'd let her girls down. She'd let her admiral down. She let Iowa down, and Mo, and Wisky… She'd let Crowning down. He trusted her, he'd uprooted his whole life to be with her in Washington… and what did she have to show for it? A scared little girl with her legs blown off. A girl who was a better battleship than she'd ever be.
Jersey didn't even bother to try hiding the tears streaming down her face. It took every shred of effort she had left just to march along the snow-lined paths. She knew that Tenryuu was guiding her to the docks, at least on an intellectual level. But the big battleship's universal ended at the inert figure in her arms.
Heermann was sleeping, if you could call passing out from the pain and bloodloss sleep. Her sisters marched along in mute procession, a silent vanguard ushering Heermann to… To the docks. Where she'd get better. Jersey refused to think of any other possibility.
Tenryuu stepped though a door and held it open. Her back went straight as an arrow, her face pointed straight ahead as her hand slowly came up to meet her brow. On her shoulders, a dozen faeries—all in immaculate black dress uniforms—mimicked her actions.
Jersey couldn't bear to meet their eyes. The solemn gesture of respect burned like white phosphorous against her skin. Heermann deserved it. Hoel deserved it. Johnston deserved it. Sammy deserved it. Every last man, and ship in Taffy 3 deserved it. She sure as hell didn't. Not after today.
The big battleship shuddered at warm, salty air from the heated pool crashed against her hull. She could taste the oily water as she marched across the converted pool. She saw the curtained-off hot tub at the back of the low-ceilinged room. Just a few more steps.
Heermann stirred in her arms, and Jersey let out a soft coo. "Just a few more steps," she muttered. Her scratchy voice was barely above a whisper as she stepped up onto the poolside.
Heermann squirmed and burrowed her face deeper into warm softness Jersey's bloodsoaked shirt. Jersey felt the little destroyer quiver as jolts of pain shot up her keel. The healing air of the dockyard steam might be coaxing the destroyer towards recovery. But right now, all that was doing was making her conscious of her torn-off stern.
Jersey wanted to say something. Something to make the pain better, something to calm the quivering destroyer, but her words died in her throat.
"Commander," the doctor, the Major from Yokosuka who'd looked after her after her escort run, held out his arms. He looked weary as hell. His grubby flight suit was tied around his waist, and his t-shirt was stained under the arms.
"Major," Jersey managed to choke out.
"This way," the Major motioned to the hot tub. A comforting hospital bed it wasn't. Power tools lay in rows around the side, and a bench vice had been hurriedly bolted to the tiled concrete surround. "Don't leave her."
Jersey couldn't if she tried. The battleship slowly stepped into the glassy-calm water, her shoes punching holes in the shimmering film of oil and sparkling metal filings. She felt salt soak into her pores, and for a tiny fraction of an instant, she felt at home.
Then the tiny girl in her arms let out a shallow wimpier. She was starting to heal, but her hull was torn to bits. Her stern had been twisted off like someone flexing a paper clip back and forth until it cracked. The tattered metal was too badly mauled, she was healing back wrong.
"I'm sorry," mouthed Jersey, but words refused to form.
"Jersey," The Major guided Heermann's leg into the vice as gently as he could manage. "If there's… if there's a way to dull a shipgirl's pain, I don't know what it is."
"Do what you have to do," breathed Jersey.
The Major gave a resolute nod, and Jersey felt a tiny hand rest on her shoulder. She glanced over, and Sammy gave the battleship a tiny nod.
"I'm sorry, kiddo," said the Major. "I'm-" his words were lost in the roar of a portable band saw revving to speed.
Jersey wanted to look away, but she couldn't. Gritty off-white coolant poured over the mangled stump that'd been Heermann's calf as the Major slowly brought the whirring blade down into contact. Metal sparked, and Heermann let out a pathetic scream—the loudest her exhausted lungs could manage.
But the Major didn't stop. His hands were steady as a rock as he guided the saw though her tattered body with laser like precision. He hated his job, Jersey could see it in his eyes. But he wasn't going to falter. He wouldn't let Heermann down like Jersey had.
"Shhh… shhh…" Jersey did her best to coo a calming tone in her girl's ear. She hugged the destroyer tight. So tight she could feel every jolt of pain shooting up the little girl's tired muscles in her own hull. "I'm sorry."
It took almost a solid minute for the Major to finish the first cut. It took him another minute and a half to get Heermann's other leg into the vice and cut off the twisted, blackened metal.
"This isn't going to be pretty," he stated. There wasn't a hint of inflection in the Major's voice. He was doing his job, forcing his emotions into line while he finished off his task. He must hate it. But it had to be done.
Jersey nodded, and she swore she felt Heermann mimic the gesture with a tiny nod of her own.
"Hold her still," said the Major. A loud whirr echoed off the poolroom tile as his angle grinder spun up. Nobody said a word while he worked. Heermann's whimpers were quiet enough that only Jersey, with her body pressed to tight against the destroyer she could hear her turbines hum, could hear. Each tiny sound resonated like hammer blow in her heart. A damming reminded of her abject failure.
It took almost twenty minutes before the Major'd cleaned up Heermann's wounds to her faeries satisfaction. Then… finally then the girl's legs could be lowered into the healing water. She passed out the instant her wounds dipped below the surface, her tiny, tense form suddenly going very still against Jersey's bloodsoaked breast.
The Major slumped back against the poolroom wall, his head clasped between his hands.
The last thing Jersey remembered before she fell asleep was the warmth of her destroyers huddling around her in the cramped hot tub. Then she was adrift on a frozen sea.