Straits of Hell (14 page)

Almost all of
Donaghey
's officers lingered on the quarterdeck for more than an hour, waiting impatiently for Choon to reappear. When he did, they crowded around him. “It seems there will be an effort to carry several of us ashore to meet with the kaiser, under the cover of darkness,” Choon announced.

“How?” Greg demanded, pointing at
Savoie.
“That thing keeps arc lights on us all night long to stop us from doing any such thing.”

Choon spread his hands, blinking. “I do not know how, only that it will be. Never fear. This has clearly taken considerable time to organize, and I doubt the kaiser would have ordered the plan to move forward if there was not an excellent chance of success.”

“Or unless something's spooked him,” Bekiaa suggested.

Choon blinked at her. “There is that possibility, I suppose.”

//////
USS
Walker
Grik City Dock
September 4, 1944

“Y
ou'll shove off at dawn?” Sandra asked. Her tone was matter-of-fact, but her expression betrayed her unhappiness. Matt looked at her, and his heart seemed to crack. He loved her so much and despite her evident fatigue and disappointment, the setting sun washed her upturned face with an extra touch of that angelic . . . something that only pregnant women possessed. To Matt's surprise, she'd accepted her orders to accompany Adar and the wounded back to Baalkpan. She
had
argued, bitterly and intensely, but not for nearly as long as he'd expected. It was as if that something, whatever it was, (conspicuously absent during the fight to take the city), had finally asserted itself with a pragmatic protectiveness for the life she carried that trumped her conscious desire to share his
fate, no matter what. Matt was profoundly grateful, but as she looked up at him, absently sweeping away loose strands of sandy brown hair, her eyes were like little pools of life for his thirsty soul. Not trusting his words, he merely nodded.

All around them on the dock, preparations continued.
Salissa
was already in the strait, still escorted by DES-Ron 6. Soon, her planes would start scouting the Grik coast more closely, and the DDs would split up and go hunting. It was time for
Walker,
already fueled and provisioned, to join them. The old destroyer's crew was completing the transfer of ammunition from the nearest warehouse, so recently off-loaded from a pair of “fast freighters” docked nearby. They were strange ships, captured Grik “Indiamen” as so many Allied auxiliaries were, but these had been razeed to corvettes, or “DEs,” and then converted to steamers. They retained a vestigial sailing ability, with two masts rigged fore and aft, and their engineering plant took up a lot of cargo space. But they were quick and dependable—and relatively expendable—for long-range supply runs across a hostile sea. Matt knew that captured Dom ships were being similarly refitted in the Empire of the New Britain Isles to help the lagging supply effort in the East. He was suddenly struck by the irony of the ships. No longer fit for frontline combat operations even as the swift-sailing DEs they'd originally become, but too numerous and useful to retire, they'd been converted into everything from freighters such as these, to small unit transports and Nancy seaplane tenders. In the same way, so many aging four-stacker destroyers—like
Walker
—had been converted before the “Old War.”

He looked back at Sandra. “Yes,” he said at last, managing a smile even though this would be the last time he saw her before
Amerika
sailed for Baalkpan in a couple of days.

“You'll be careful?” she demanded doubtfully, adjusting the collar of his shirt.

“Sure.
You
be careful,” he urged, glancing significantly downward. “For both of you.”

She frowned. “It's not fair, you know.”

He nodded again. “I know.”

Their tender moment was interrupted by a roar on deck, and they looked up at the ship. She'd changed a little since the fight. Attached to the boat davits aft of the torpedo mounts were large wooden rafts,
finally replacing her old, mesh-bottomed ones with something more useful in this ferocious sea. They wouldn't be much good for a lengthy stranding, but they might protect a few people long enough for them to be picked up by another ship or boat. Also, and just as important to Matt, they provided at least some barrier against boarders. With them, the new extra machine guns, and the Nancy seaplane supported on its catapult aft,
Walker
was more top-heavy than she'd ever been, but Matt intended to stick fairly close to
Big Sal
and keep his fuel bunkers topped off, using the underway refueling procedures they'd practiced so carefully. He didn't expect she'd roll much more excessively than normal. They quickly located the source of their distraction. Chief Jeek was overseeing the last torpedo going aboard, to be stored in the inoperative number two tube.
Walker
ordinarily had no space for spare torpedoes, but even if the tube wouldn't work, it was silly not to fill it. The hoist lifting the heavy weapon had gotten tangled with one of the wireless aerial supports, causing the torpedo to spin, fouling the support, and jerking the 'Cats on the taglines to the deck.

“What's wrong with you idiot monkeyheads!” Jeek bellowed, throwing a 'Cat at a snaking tagline. “That fish gots a
warhead
on it! You wanna blow up the ship?
Goddaam it!
” he practically shrieked when the support pulled the aerial too taut and it snapped at the foremast like a pistol shot, falling across the funnels and the amidships deckhouse like a high-tension spring. “Secure! Secure!” He grabbed a tagline himself just as several other Lemurians got a grip on the others, and with supreme effort, they managed to stall the spinning weapon. Matt closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with a groan. Jeek must've seen him, because he launched into a tirade reminiscent of Chief Gray's finest, except for the number of Lemurian words mixed in. “Set it down—on the
truck
, not the veg'taable locker! You not tell the difference?” Jeek demanded of the hoist operator. “
Easy
, don't just drop it! Is you brains turned to shit? Is you too stupid to know which end to
eat
with! There, cut that wire—watch out, it gonna snap back! You! Outa the way! You want it to cut you stupid head off?”

Just as Jeek seemed to be getting things under control, there came another threatening shout just above Matt and Sandra, on the gangway forward. “What the hell's
in
there, Isak?”

Isak Reuben had finally returned to the ship with a light wooden
crate about three feet square that he'd apparently cobbled together out of scrap wood. Dragging the crate with a rope, he'd nearly made it past Sonny Campeti,
Walker
's gunnery officer, who had the deck, but who'd been distracted by the commotion aft.

“Nuttin',” Isak proclaimed in his reedy voice.

“There's
something
in there, damn your lyin' ass!” Campeti denounced. “It's moving—and making noises!”

Matt and Sandra exchanged glances. A little “normal” chaos after all they'd been through might be refreshing. Both knew this episode would unfold “naturally” only if they stayed apart from it, so together, hand in hand in the gathering twilight, they prepared to watch the show.

Spanky had hobbled up from aft, past the still-ranting Jeek, and turned his attention to the crate. Isak seemed to wilt at the sight of him, but then straightened, possibly emboldened by the Exec's amused expression.

“It's about time you came back, Chief Reuben,” Spanky said. “Did you know Tabby wants you on report?”

“I'm wounded,” Isak defended, displaying a bandaged arm. “An' was excyooged.”

“That's why you're
not
on report. But you will be if you don't answer Lieutenant Campeti's question.”

Isak shrugged, and Matt was intrigued by the “mouse's” sudden attitude. There'd been a time when Isak and his half brother, Gilbert, would've walked a mile out of their way to avoid even talking to an officer. Matt suspected that Isak's part in slaying the Celestial Mother had instilled a greater confidence in him when it came to such encounters.

“It's a pet,” Isak finally confessed. “Always wanted one. Deck apes always get the pets, an' us snipes never do. Why, the first 'Cats that came aboard went to the deck division. Then Silva got to keep Larry the Lizard, an'”—he seemed to remember Sandra might be watching—“Miz Tucker—I mean, Mrs. Minister Reddy—got to keep Petey when he showed back up from the east.” His expression turned even more sour than usual. “An' when me an' Gilbert finally did get us a pet, when Tabby came down to the firerooms, she went an'
took charge
! It ain't fair!” His voice had gone from almost confrontational to plaintive. The box rumbled and Campeti took a step back.

“What
kind
of pet, Chief Reuben?” Spanky asked patiently.

“Just a little one.”

“What
kind
?”

Isak looked around. With the turmoil aft under control, they were drawing attention. Earl Lanier, the ship's bloated cook, had approached with his arms crossed over this grungy T-shirt, and even Tabby was watching now, blinking angrily. Jeek trotted up and saluted, blinking embarrassment. “Sorry XO. The fish is stowed—but the aerial's down. EMs'll get right on it.”

“That's okay, Chief.” Spanky nodded at the cobbled-together hoist. “You and the fellas have done well under the circumstances. I guess we'll get proper yard facilities built someday, but in the meantime we have to make do. Have Mr. Palmer let me know as soon as communications are restored.”

“Ay, ay, sur.”

Spanky turned back to Isak. “What kind?” he demanded more forcefully.

“Here, I'll show ya,” Isak replied, patting the box and unhooking the top. Before he could even raise the lid, a dark form banged it open and jumped into view, teetering on the side of the crate. Everyone drew back because even in the deepening gloom it was obvious that Isak's new pet was a Griklet.

“Griklets” were baby Grik, and not only had no one ever made a “pet” of one; no one had ever even managed to capture one alive. They were savage little things, with no more apparent sense than an alligator—with the agility of a monkey. Even the young of Lawrence's comparatively civilized Sa'aarans weren't considered “people” by their elders until they more or less reached maturity—of action and thought. The things had given them all kinds of grief when they first discovered them on Ceylon, their holding pens opened by retreating Grik. They ran in packs, attacking whatever they thought they could catch and eat, and every attempt to deal with them in a nonlethal way had failed. Ultimately, the Allies resorted to shooting them on sight. It had been much the same in Indiaa, to a lesser degree, because many “civilian” Grik had been evacuated before the fighting and not simply slain by their warriors. The same must've been the case here, since almost no Griklets had been seen in the city. Of course, no one doubted that the Grik cooped up west of the harbor had eaten their Griklets first. . . .

“Wait just a damn minute!” Campeti said, drawing his.45. “We've had enough Grik on this ship lately!”

Matt was inclined to agree, but he didn't interfere. He was amazed by how calm the thing seemed to be. It just stood there, glaring around, its nearly plumage-free tail swishing and its crestless head bobbing as it sniffed.

“Yeah!” Earl agreed, stepping forward. “You want a pet, get a puppy! Give it here and I'll cook it!”

“Like hell!” Isak growled. “He's mine! You got any idea how hard he was to catch? That's what I been up to,” Isak told Spanky. “I caught him, an' I been trainin' him. Why, he's tame as a duck.”

Spanky frowned, and Campeti took that as his cue.

“No Grik of any size is getting on this ship again,” he said. “Shut that lid and get him ashore. Mr. Bradford can cut him up—or teach him to play Chinese checkers for all I care.”

“That ain't fair!” Isak practically wailed. “You leave him be, you ever want any more o' my PIG-cigs!”

“I don't smoke 'em,” Campeti growled. “Box him up!”

“Wait . . . ,” Spanky began, but Earl lumbered forward.

“I'll get him!” Earl said.

At the sight of the mountain of flesh, the Griklet squealed and bolted. Perhaps instinctively going for height, it skittered up the stairs to the amidships deckhouse. Dashing between the legs of surprised 'Cats trying to clear the aerial, it finally reached the top of the number two 4"-50, where it paused, looking frantically about.

“No!” Isak screeched. “Lemme get him!” He snatched a crumbling cracker from his pocket and trotted up the stairs after his little friend.

“Get that thing!” Campeti shouted.

“Belay that!” Spanky countered. “Let the mouse do it.”

Campeti, Tabby, and Earl crept slowly up the stairs, and then eased closer. Isak was standing on the gun's “bicycle seat,” holding the cracker made of the somewhat pumpkiny-tasting Lemurian flour. “Here's a cracker, Grikky,” Isak crooned in what he probably thought was an entreating croak. Lanier snorted. The Griklet hissed, but stretched its snout toward the cracker.

“I'll be damned,” Spanky murmured from below, having limped to a
point he could watch better. Perhaps emboldened, Isak wheedled, “here Grikky, Grikky!” Earl, unable to contain himself, guffawed.

Terrified by the horrible sound from the bloated monster, “Grikky” leaped over Isak, bounced off the ready lockers, and used the number three gun as a springboard to launch himself over the starboard side of the ship—to splash with a shriek in the water of the harbor below.

“Noooo!” Isak wailed, lunging for the opposite rail. There was no hope. Even several weeks after the battle, particularly so close to the dock where they'd dumped thousands of Grik, the harbor was still full of flasher fish torpidly nibbling the last morsels from a vast submerged bed of bones. And, of course, Grik didn't swim. Lanier exploded in laughter, and Isak rounded on him with flashing eyes. Almost as quick as his lost pet, the wiry human jumped on Earl, climbing around and up on the cook's back, wrapping his legs around his chest, and began raining blows on Lanier's head, screeching “murderer” at the top of his lungs. Quite a crowd had gathered on the main deck below, and general laughter erupted as Lanier waddled in circles, roaring like a bull, trying to peel the enraged fireman off his back. Surprised by Isak's uncharacteristically strong reaction to . . . anything, Tabby and Campeti's first reaction was to step back. Now they rushed forward to drag Isak down.