Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(103)
Courtney snorted and glared up at Optio Meek. “Don’t just stand there gawking! Help me up, damn you.” When Meek complied, Courtney, leaning on the younger man, controlled a grimace. “Couldn’t’ve said it better myself, Inquisitor,” he granted, then looked at Kim. “So, let’s get cracking, shall we? You can reshape your army, General, but do it on the march. Use this victory to weld it together. And make sure your people know it was a victory. I’ll warrant they already know how much worse it could’ve been—and why. They’ll want change now. Let’s give it to them, and push on until the end!”
General Kim nodded, his expression hardening as decision came. “Very well,” he agreed. “So be it.” He held each gaze a moment and then nodded once more. “Until the end.”
CHAPTER 15
////// Southwest of Zanzibar
November 17, 1944
Rough-sounding Grik-made engines blaaapped loudly in the predawn dark as the dirigible bucked the chilly, quartering crosswind at around three thousand feet. Their altitude was a guess; there was no altimeter, nor was there a light in the forward gondola, and Dennis Silva could barely see the shapes of the aircrew flying “his” zeppelin. There’d been light below earlier when they crossed the phosphorescent wakes of (probably) Allied AVDs, steaming closer to the south coast of Zanzibar than ever before. Their planes wouldn’t scout the island itself, but would continue making sure Kurokawa’s fleet hadn’t sortied, and start cutting the supply line to the mainland. Now there was nothing, not even the glimmering wave tops reflecting the sparkling stars. At some point, they’d crossed the African shoreline, and the stars had disappeared behind a hazy overcast. Only occasional flares of Silva’s Zippo over his pocket compass kept them aimed at their objective.
Dennis felt a prickly sensation on the back of his neck and automatically reached up to thump Petey on the head. But Petey wasn’t there. He’d left him with Isak and Tabby. Pam would’ve devotedly watched him right up until he left, then pitched him out the nearest porthole. She couldn’t stand him. Silva wondered why he could. He’d never wanted him, and on his best behavior the little lizard was an obnoxious, annoying pest. Kinda like me, he thought. But Petey was also a constant reminder of Sandra, and the Governor-Empress Rebecca Anne McDonald. Particularly the latter, when she’d merely been a scared little girl he called Li’l Sis. Petey took Dennis back to a cherished time when a little girl saw nothing but good in him, looked at him as an indestructible protector, and gave him her unqualified trust. That had changed him at least as much as Chief Gray’s example and Captain Reddy’s confidence that he’d do what had to be done, no matter what. He took off his helmet and scratched his head. Well, I guess if anything happens to me, ol’ Petey’ll be okay, at least. That dopey creep Isak always wanted a pet.
“You ne’er go this long wi’out talking,” Lawrence said. “You’re not scared, are you?”
Instead of his usual bluster, Dennis chuckled. “What’s to be scared of? We’re flyin’ a string o’ gas turds in a paper bag, patched together with balin’ wire an’ gum, toward what’re likely the best-trained, best-armed Griks we ever met, led by Japs with modern fighters an’ a battleship. An’ our mission is to crash in the middle of ’em all an’ run around spyin’ an’ reportin’ what we see. Oh yeah, an’ rescue the Skipper’s pregnant wife in our spare time. I’m dozin’ on my feet.”
Lawrence nodded seriously and Silva noted he could see him better now as the sky began to gray. “You say it like that,” Lawrence said, “it does sound kinda dull. It’ll get greater exciting ’hen the ’ig show starts, I think.” They laughed together, Lawrence’s sounding like a leaking steam line. The three aircrew, all Shee-Ree, looked at them like they were nuts, and as the light improved, Silva could see them better. The ’Cats were dyed and dressed as Grik, just like Lawrence. They wouldn’t fool anybody in daylight, but might in the dark, at a distance. It was better than nothing. They’d rely on Lawrence and Pokey (the only real Grik they had) to do any talking. But Pokey, despite his obvious glee at seeing “See-va” again, still struck Dennis as retarded, even for a Grik.
Maybe it’s just how he acts around me, he considered. The Khonashi troops in the aft gondola might actually be more problematic. Their rust-colored plumage was darker than the average Grik and they’d had to be lightened with stuff that might wash off if it rained. And then there was Silva and Captain Stuart Brassey, of course. Dennis knew the young Imperial officer I’joorka sent to command his detachment of Khonashi very well, but neither looked like Grik in daylight or dark. Hopefully they’d pass as Japanese, though Silva, at six foot two, would be a very unusual—and memorable—Japanese sailor. There couldn’t be many, if any, like him, and they’d be very well-known. Maybe there were still some Leaguers around? Their best bet was to remain undetected.
“Is dat it?” asked the ’Cat behind the tall, upright tiller controlling the rudders and elevators aft. He was nodding northeast over the open rail at a dark, distant shape beginning to firm up. It lay across a broad ocean gap from the mainland below. Dennis strode forward and extended the Imperial telescope in front of his good eye. “Guess so,” he said. “It’s about the right time.” He aimed the glass down at several ships in the strait. A couple were old-style, square-rig Grik Indiamen, the growing day separating their dingy white sails from the purple-black sea. One ship looked like the double-ended steam tugs they’d seen pulling troops and supplies up the West Mangoro River on Madagascar. The barge behind was stacked with barrels. “Steer for the island,” he ordered, still staring at the barge. The sun peeked over the horizon like a molten ball, battering the filmy overcast and spraying them with light. “Ever’body but Larry, remember to stay back from the rail,” he warned. “Pass the word aft.” Through the telescope he began to see multicolored streamers in the water, trailing the barge. He grunted. “Oil barrels. Leaky. Fuel oil for Kurokawa. Just like we thought, he’s done with coal. At least for his ships. An’ he has to have oil to make gas for his planes. Those casks’re so leaky, though, I bet I could burn the whole thing just by droppin’ a lit cee-gar.” He shrugged. “Oh, well.”