Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(116)
Greg felt a chill, imagining the result of a marriage between League fascism and technology and Dom fanaticism.
“You and I, however, will not live to see it,” the boy continued. “You’ve served our purposes well today. Your act will bring the League even closer to us, closer to God; susceptible to direction and our understanding of His will.” His smile turned almost blissful, lighting his childish face. “I must now do my part.” Reaching up with his small thumb, he cocked the hammer back. Instantly, his head exploded when at least two rifles fired at once. The rifle clattered to the deck, followed by the thump of the corpse, its legs kicking spastically.
For a long moment, Greg could only stare. “Talk about demons,” he whispered. “Somebody throw that rotten, twisted little shit over the side. Damn!” he said emphatically, his skin crawling with horror and relief. “I’m gonna have nightmares about that punk.”
“Which was probably his intent,” Pol-Heena said gravely, stepping forward. The Allin-Silva rifle in his hand wisped smoke from the muzzle as he approached.
Greg nodded at him, blinking a mixture of apology and appreciation. It had rattled him more than he could show, that a seemingly innocent little boy could not only try to kill him, but be so filled with evil. “Most likely. What a creep. All right,” he said, raising his voice, “let’s get those people out of the water!”
Antúnez lay on her side for half an hour, her undamaged port side holding air long enough for her people to gather on her hull and calm to return. Some had jumped into the sea and not many of those survived. The few who did were plucked out almost as quickly as they hit the water and some had some ugly bites. The blue-gold flashies were just as attentive to the dinner bell as their cousins in other seas. No doubt some men had been trapped below, and there was nothing they could do for them, but the boats brought away more than fifty of her eighty-four officers and men. Outwardly deserted, Antúnez finally blew out her air in a long, dying shriek, settling by the stern on her side. Nothing was left above the surface but a spread of oil and floating debris. That was just as well. Somebody would find her eventually, running up on her if nothing else, but Greg would’ve had to blast her superstructure and masts apart if they’d been left sticking up. The sole surviving bridge officer was a blond ensign, the looped strand of braid on his left coat sleeve torn and dangling. His young, blood-spattered face was suffused with fury when he was brought before Captain Garrett.
“Do you have any idea what you have done?” he seethed, perfectly understandable but with a heavy accent. “How dare you! You killed half my crew. War, sir! There will be war after this! We will be avenged.”
“Are you finished?” Greg demanded harshly. “How dare you expect any less? You fired on us first and we defended ourselves. This after your goddamn League committed act after act of war against us, including sinking a hospital ship full of helpless wounded. Spare me the pretense of innocent outrage.”
The young officer paused. It was pointless to deny that Antúnez opened the action, not that it would matter, and he was apparently aware of the events Greg cited and unable to find an argument. Perhaps a touch of shame even darted across his face? It firmed again, however, and he stood straighter. “I am Alferez—Ensign—Tomas Perez Mole, the senior surviving officer of the Nationalist Spanish destroyer Antúnez. Who do I have the . . . honor of addressing?”
“Captain Greg Garrett, United States Navy, commanding the American Navy Clan ship USS Donaghey for the United Homes.”
“I cannot speak to the allegations you make,” Tomas said stiffly. “I am merely a junior officer in a single ship and have little knowledge of events elsewhere, nor can I—or my crew,” he stressed, “speak to the policies of my government. But for our present purposes, regardless who fired first—I cannot say for certain who did so,” he qualified, glancing slightly away, unwilling to openly concede the point. “The fact remains that you sank my ship and killed many of her people.” He glanced at his crew, gathered in Donaghey’s waist under guard, and Greg looked at them too. Many seemed angry; others subdued. Some were wounded, and Sori and his mates were attempting to examine them. Most who could shied away, though not with the terrified expressions of the Doms. Their hesitation seemed more like a desire not to accept help from an enemy. Or was it a racial response? “We are your prisoners,” Tomas stated simply. “What are your intentions?”
For the first time, Greg seemed unsure of himself and unconsciously swept a hand across his face. “I can’t leave you here,” he began, noting Tomas’s sudden hopeful expression, that he and his people wouldn’t simply be killed. Stupid kid, he thought. Why would we rescue them, just to bump ’em off? Then he saw belated disappointment touch the ensign’s face. Clearly he’d expected a quick rescue, if they were marooned, by other League ships. “Besides being a dumb move on my part, I’m told there’re deadly snakes all over the place,” he expanded. He looked at Matarife. “I guess we ought to cram you aboard her. There’re already a couple hundred Doms in her. Some are even helping out.” His face darkened. “Not sure that’s a good idea. We had one of their midshipmen aboard, only a little kid, and he just tried to kill me—after murdering one of my Marines.” He looked thoughtful. “I bet your leaders would be interested to know how he saw the relationship between his country and yours.”