Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(148)
“It’ll be fine, Skipper,” Bernie assured confidently. “These new fish work. They’ll go where we tell ’em.” He grinned. “It’s so nice to have torpedoes we can count on, short legs or not!”
Matt grinned back as much at Bernie’s enthusiasm as anything. “Okay. Minnie, pass the word to the Seven boat to shove off. Mr. Hardee will follow in our wake.” When the confirmation returned that the Seven boat was clear, Matt sighed and clasped his hands behind him, willing his nerves to obey. “Here we go. All ahead one-third, Mr. Laan. Sound general quarters,” he added to Imperial Marine Corporal Neely, without looking at him. “And then run up our own battle flag, if you please.”
“Ay, ay, sur,” Laan replied, ringing up the engine-room repeater. “All ahead one-third.” Neely raised his bugle to his lips and turned the switch on the aft bulkhead to the shipwide circuit. It was possible, even likely, the Grik in the nearby shipyard aft of the drifting, burning carrier heard the piercing notes of Neely’s bugle, amplified around the ship. Many might’ve seen her for the first time then, as she surged away from the jungle-shrouded shore and gathered speed. A few of the shore batteries might’ve engaged her, but likely by the time their crews realized what she was and tried to bring their guns to bear, she was already plowing into the denser smoke of the burning ship. Even if they had wireless contact with their ships or Kurokawa’s headquarters, there’d be no time for a warning to be acted upon. Juan Marcos clomped up the stars aft, and in a ritual they’d repeated more times than either could remember, buckled Matt’s sword and pistol belt around his waist, then exchanged his hat for a helmet.
? ? ?
“Goddamn it!” Earl Lanier roared when the distinctive bugle call blared from the loudspeaker on the bulkhead. The cook’s voice was thunderous in the otherwise empty aft crew’s head. “Goddamn bugles. Goddamn war. Goddamn shitty flour they make me cook with! I stay bound up tighter’n a rubber on a jackass half the time, an’ whenever I finally settle down for a nice, satisfyin’ shit, somebody always decides to throw a goddamn battle!” He was acutely conscious of the fact many of the hands considered the head his “battle station” because, somehow, battles always seemed to catch him there. Not my fault, he brooded. My guts is sensitive. And the strangely pumpkin-flavored flour the Lemurians provided seemed to clog him up worse than anything. He tried frying everything he used it with, hoping honest grease would . . . smooth the process, but though that seemed to help, the crew complained and said he’d fry ice cubes from the freezer if he could get away with it. Chances were, he would. But the perception that he went to the head to escape danger actually stung. I ain’t afraid o’ nothin’! An’ it ain’t like it’s safe here. These thin walls wouldn’t stop a shell or bullet or anything much heavier than a spitwad. The overhead’s maybe a tad thicker, to support the number-four gun, but it damn sure won’t stop a bomb. I’m cursed, he thought bleakly as he quickly finished and drew his cavernous, greasy trousers up and buckled his belt over his expansive gut. A victim o’ circumstance . . . an’ not enough fried fish, he decided.
It never occurred to him that he was truly a victim of his abrasive tyranny over his division—and a certain peg-legged Filipino. One of the most closely guarded secrets in the entire Alliance was the tasteless laxative powder Juan Marcos hoarded, acquired in Baalkpan, and supplied to Lanier’s long-suffering assistants and mess attendants. Driven to distraction by Lanier’s petty nagging, complaints, and extra work details, the only justice they could enjoy—short of murder—was the occasional “doctoring” of his food to aggravate his condition. And they didn’t want to murder him; they didn’t even hate him. He was what he was. So they used the powder and kept mum.
“Gaad,” he said, choking on smoke as he stepped outside. ’Cats in the 25 mm gun tubs on either side of the empty Nancy catapult stared as he raised the bottom of his filthy T-shirt over his face to filter the smoke. His huge, hairy belly was marred by a crooked tattoo with some very respectable scars running through it. The tattoo was no longer identifiable; the scars saw to that. They also prove I’m no coward, he thought, glaring back at the inscrutable ’Cat eyes, blinking nothing and peering over bandannas that hid their noses and mouths.
“Look, fellaas,” one ’Cat yowled—it was impossible to tell which, with their faces covered. “This fight’s already over. Earl’s outa the head!”
“Yeah? The hell with you!” Earl snapped. “You come for a battle sammitch, just think o’ me usin’ your bread to wipe my ass!” Fuming, he stalked past the searchlight tower and between the new quad-tube torpedo mounts, their crews already turning the big wheels that trained them out over the side. Spanky went by at a jog, heading for the auxiliary conn aft. He saw Lanier but didn’t stop. He only rolled his eyes and shook his head. Earl made a gesture at his back but continued on, passing the number four funnel and looking up at the gun’s crews on the deck above his galley. They were training out as well, probably reporting to Sonny Campeti on the fire-control platform over the bridge that the number-two and -three guns were “maaned an’ ready.” He looked to port before stepping under the open end of the galley deckhouse. The big Jap/Grik carrier was lying almost on its side, flames shooting up through collapsing sections, close enough, it seemed, to blister his flesh with the searing heat. A huddle of Grik clutched the sloping flight deck aft, trying to keep from sliding into the terrible sea. Others dangled lifelessly over the rails of the conn tower, or “island.” They’d all probably cooked or suffocated. “Serves ’em right,” he mumbled, but the image stuck in his mind. Back home, if your ship’s done, you can always jump in the water. You take your chances with drowning and sharks, but there’s a chance. Here, if you can’t get in a boat or raft, you might as well cook or choke. The water might be a quicker death, but nobody wants to get ate. In the shadow of the deckhouse, his eyes settled on a large, red rectangular object that shouldn’t be there: his beloved Coke machine.