Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(137)

“Just one second, Captain Brassey,” Horn said. He stepped to Diania, and with the utmost tenderness that probably embarrassed him and definitely stunned Silva, he reached up and caressed the woman’s cheek. Right then, he didn’t give a damn what anybody thought. Even more surprising, Diania closed her eyes and leaned her face into his hand.

“Do be careful, Gunnery Sergeant Horn,” she said softly. “Arnold,” she added, speaking his given name for the very first time.

“I will,” he assured, taking the bayonet from the musket he’d been carrying and sticking the long blade in his waistband. The other members of Brassey’s party, realizing his purpose, did the same. They’d have to leave their rifles behind. Brassey and the Khonashi all had pistols, however, and a couple who’d be going with Silva and the others passed theirs to Horn and Lange, along with extra magazines. Horn glanced at Silva. “Never had much reason to watch out for myself before, and I’ve pulled some stupid stunts. But for the first time, I’m thinking past what I’m doing right now.” He fumbled around his neck and handed a sweat-rotted leather thong to Dennis. On one end was a tooth that appeared a good match for the one missing from Silva’s mouth. “I’m not giving it to you,” Horn warned. “Just hold on to it, in case something happens. If it does, you can have it back. Glue it in or something.” It still remained a mystery how Horn wound up with one of Silva’s teeth, a long time ago on another world, but no one doubted it had been a memorable adventure. “Now give us some of those grenades from your bag.”

“Sure,” Silva said, raising the satchel and opening the flap. Brassey, Lange, Horn, and the rest all took one and either hooked it on their belts or stashed it in a pouch. “Plenty for all.” Dennis held up the tooth. “I’ll keep this for ya, an’ make sure you get it back. I got no use for it now, an’ you damn sure earned it.”

“We must go,” Brassey insisted.

“Yeah, us too,” Silva agreed. “So long, Arnie. Mr. Cook.” He looked at Pokey, the little Grik they’d captured at Aryaal so long ago, whom he remembered as barely bright enough to pick up their spent brass. He’d obviously flourished in the 1st North Borno. “So long, Pokey.”

“So long, See’va!”

“Good luck, and godspeed,” Sandra said.

“And you, Lady Sandra,” Brassey replied.

“One last thing,” Horn said. “What’s that stupid tune you’ve been humming?”

Silva grinned. “Just a little ditty I learned as a kid. Kinda catchy, ain’t it? Can’t remember all the words, but the ones I do go, ‘You wanna chase the devil, you wanna have fun. . . . You wanna smell hell . . .” He shrugged. “Seems kinda fittin’.”

With that, the broken party went its separate ways—Brassey’s toward the long gangway, Silva’s around the outskirts of the shipyard, toward Kurokawa’s compound.

It was bizarre, in a way, how easily Horn, Brassey, Lange, Pokey, and their five Khonashi companions boarded the bustling ship on the port quarter and boldly made their way across to the stair beside the number three turret. There were Grik all around, still racing aboard as they were, but no humans in sight. “What about this one?” Brassey hissed, gesturing at the closest turret.

“Well, if all we do is knock one out, maybe we should get one up forward, most likely to be shooting at our people,” Horn countered.

Brassey grimaced. “Perhaps, but I dislike the thought of strolling half the length of the ship, surrounded by enemies!”

“It’ll be a cinch. Just scowl a lot. And Mr. Lange can holler French at anybody who gets in our way. As long as we don’t meet a real Frenchie, we should be okay.”

Lange and Horn led the way, pretending to know what they were doing. At least they were somewhat familiar with the ship and didn’t have to go belowdecks. That would’ve made it more likely they’d come face-to-face with someone who knew they had no business there. They made their way briskly past the mainmast, then the barges and lifeboats underneath the pair of great cranes flanking the aft stack. There were antiaircraft guns on either side of the deckhouse beneath the empty seaplane catapult, and the number of Grik they saw increased as they passed the forward superstructure. Obviously, as they’d hoped, the Grik must’ve thought they were French or Japanese. They probably couldn’t tell the difference. They did see several Japanese officers, waving or leading Grik to their stations, but in the gloom, and seeming to move with a purpose, Horn and Lange were apparently taken for Frenchmen doing the same. Under the chaotic circumstances, paced by obvious “Grik,” any notion that they were strangers there to sabotage the ship didn’t occur to anyone. For the first time perhaps, the enemy’s sense that the species they surrounded themselves with left them immune to infiltration might just bite them on the ass as hard as it had the Allies on occasion.

Trooping around in front of the armored fighting bridge, they arrived underneath the massive, overhanging rear of the number two turret gunhouse. Two large, thick hatches, just a few feet apart, hung open underneath it. Dull yellow light splashed down on them as they gathered around a pair of ladders. “Okay,” Horn whispered. “I spent some time in the old New York when I first joined the corps. That was another life, back in ’thirty-five. . . .” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter except, to look at, this ship might’ve been copied from her—or vice versa. Chances are the layout in there”—he nodded up at the gunhouse—“isn’t too different. And these hatches aren’t buttoned up, so the turret’s probably not fully manned. We split: half up one hatch; half up the other. Get in and kill whoever you see as fast and quiet as you can. With all the ruckus on the bay, we might get by if they holler a little, but try to keep it down—and don’t add to it. Just get on them and keep sticking”—he glanced at a Khonashi—“or slashing until they quit squeaking. And no shooting,” he stressed. “But no matter what, we have to kill them all before they raise an alarm, and that means some of us have to get all the way to the gun pit below and shut the hatch down there. Once we secure that and these two, we’ll have the joint, and there isn’t much they can do about it, savvy? Then we’ll do what we came for.” He paused. “Ready?” There were nods, and Stuart Brassey positioned himself under the left hatch, pulling the bayonet from his belt. Taking a deep breath, Arnold Horn did the same and stood under the hatch on the right. “Let’s go!” Brassey said, his young voice cracking, and he and Horn led the rest inside the monstrous turret.