Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(159)
The price was high, however. Another five ’Cats were killed and eleven wounded. Campeti took a 6.5 slug through his forearm, probably breaking the ulna, but quickly wrapped it and pressed on. That delay was probably why Matt, his uniform now grimy and spattered with blood, was first on the bridge. He approached the pilothouse with his battered Academy sword at arm’s length, probing, freshly loaded Colt held back, elbow bent, sights clear in front of his eyes. He’d discovered that no one could resist taking a whack at the sword as it came around a corner, making them an easy target for the .45. Pack Rat, Campeti, and Jeek crowded in behind him, trying to squeeze past and protect him, but when they saw what awaited them through the final hatch, they knew their fight was over and couldn’t rival what had happened here.
Blood was everywhere, and bodies lay in heaps. It even looked like Grik had fought one another, tooth and claw. Kapitan Leutnant Becher Lange, his once-robust frame now thin and wasted, lay atop a pudgy corpse in a blood-soaked white uniform. The man’s eyes seemed to stare at the overhead, astonished, from a face bearing a thin, dark mustache. Just beyond them on the bulkhead was a bronze plaque with the raised letters of the word HONNEUR upon it. Another white-uniformed man with a bloody leg wound sat on a chair, staring at Gunnery Sergeant Arnold Horn, who, almost as thin as Lange, was sitting on the deck, leaning on the engine-order telegraph with a pistol in one hand. His face was filthy, smudged dark with powder smoke and drying blood. Two pinkish tracks ran down his cheeks because his other hand supported the head of Captain Stuart Brassey, lying across his lap. It was impossible to tell how much of the blood Horn sat in was his and how much Brassey’s, but Horn at least was alive. One of the Grik suddenly whimpered and tried to crawl toward Horn. Matt raised his pistol.
“No!” Horn cried. “That’s Pokey! One of ours.” Apparently, Horn, Pokey, and the French naval officer were the only survivors on the bridge.
“My God,” Matt breathed. “Pack Rat, get Lieutenant Cross up here on the double. Chief Jeek”—he pointed at the Frenchman—“secure that prisoner.”
“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan.”
“Capitaine Reddy?” the man asked, apparently surprised, as the bridge filled with ’Cats and Matt went to Horn.
“Yeah,” Matt snapped back. “How are you, Gunny?” he asked Horn.
“I’m okay. Pretty beat.” He glanced down at the still, young face, and absently brushed a lock of hair aside. “He was a good kid, sir. A good officer. All he wanted to be.” He nodded at Lange. “He got what he wanted too, I guess. Revenge for Amerika. That’s Admiral Laborde under him. He had a pistol. Shot Captain Brassey when we charged in. Lange’s pistol was empty by the time we got here, but he soaked up the rest of Laborde’s bullets until I could get a shot.” He glared at the wounded Frenchman. “He shot poor Pokey and a couple of our Khonashis. Winged me too—not bad—before I popped him in the leg. I guess he’s out of bullets.” Horn waved his pistol. “I got one left.”
“Capitaine Reddy, I am Capitaine Dupont, of the League of Tripoli. I demand—”
Matt spun to face him. “You! Shut your goddamn face! As far as I’m concerned, you’re a pirate and a murderer, in no position to demand anything. Chief Jeek, if that man speaks again before I want him to, you will not hesitate one single second to blow his head off. Is that clear?”
“Aye, sur.”
Horn was chuckling. It seemed painful.
“What?” Matt asked.
“Nothing, sir. I just don’t think I ever heard you cuss like that.” Matt’s blazing eyes softened slightly. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Gunny, but I guess I do sometimes. I’ll try to watch it in the future. Where are Sandra, Diania, Adar—and Kurokawa?”
Pam pushed her way in the pilothouse and flung her medical bag on the deck. “And that idiot Dennis,” she added anxiously, yanking the bag open.
Horn looked down as two ’Cats gently eased Stuart Brassey away. “See to Pokey first, ma’am. He’s hit worse than me. Mine’s clean, in and out over the hip.” He looked at Matt. “Chairman Adar’s dead, sir. Died breaking out of the camp.” Matt’s eyes went hard again. “But the ladies were fine when we split off from Dennis,” Horn assured. “Him and Lawrence went to raise hell ashore and hopefully catch Kurokawa there. He’s not aboard.” He shook his head. “Might’ve boarded something else, but that’s what Dennis meant to stop, I figure.”
Matt, stung by the news about Adar, squeezed Horn’s shoulder and stood, moving aside so Pam could work. Stepping out on the port bridgewing, he saw Walker idling just a hundred yards away. She didn’t seem any lower by the head, so she must’ve gotten her flooding under control. Far beyond, Ellie was steaming closer, the battle between Des-div 2 and the Grik cruisers apparently over. That had to have been a hell of a fight, he imagined grimly, but it served its purpose—to draw away the torpedo-soaking screen. He couldn’t tell how many ships had survived—friend or foe. They were all jumbled up—except for a couple drifting away, burning out of control. He glanced forward, and for the first time noticed that one of the guns in Savoie’s forward turret had burst just past a deep indentation in the barrel, like it had been hit hard by something big and they fired it anyway. Have to remember to ask Horn if he knows how that happened.