Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(165)
“Yes,” she whispered against his neck. “Yes,” she said louder. “Very glaad!”
“Colonel Chack,” Sandra said. “We have wounded inside and I need assistance.”
“Corps-’Cats!” Chack called. His summons was answered by a pair of Grik-like Khonashi with medical gear.
“Inside,” Sandra repeated gratefully. “The building is secure.” She raised her voice for Minaa’s benefit. “Khonashi coming in!” After what they’d been through, there was no sense in scaring Minaa to death—or getting Khonashi medics shot. But now she had that out of the way, she looked hesitantly at Chack, as if terrified of the question foremost in her heart.
Chack knew what it was and didn’t make her ask. “Waa-kur will be alongside the dock momentarily,” he said. “I saw her coming in and sent troops to meet her. She looks a little baattered, as usual,” he warned, “but I spoke to Cap-i-taan Reddy on the raa-dio before our last push through to here. He will be here shortly, Lady Saandra.” To Chack’s consternation, the pregnant woman embraced him with surprising strength, considering how frail she looked, and then kissed his furry cheek. “Thank you,” she murmured. “Thank God.”
Walker came to rest against the charred, battered pier south of where a sunken Grik cruiser’s protruding parts still smoldered. The air was sodden with moisture and heavy with smoke. Water spewed over the old destroyer’s side from hoses secured to stanchions on her fo’c’sle, snaking up from below. More water jetted from her sides as bilge pumps labored to keep ahead of the flooding, caused mostly by the single 13.5″ shell that hit her sideways, punching a pair of holes large enough for a ’Cat to step through. Otherwise, her damage and casualties were remarkably light, under the circumstances. Particularly considering what she’d faced. She’d certainly had it easier than James Ellis and Des-div 2, and reports concerning their condition were still coming in.
It started raining hard, lashing steam from fires burning up and down the harbor. The storm swirling to the west throughout the night and morning had finally fallen apart, but the sky remained moody, noncommittal, all day. It finally settled for an afternoon squall, which seemed to add an exclamation point to the battle, and more or less ended the fighting on Zanzibar.
As soon as the gangway was rigged, Matt Reddy, Bernie Sandison, and Pam Cross rushed up from the pier, surrounded by a squad of Chack’s Raiders, and approached the compound from the west at a trot. Matt was almost breathless when he saw Sandra, but that wasn’t why he couldn’t speak when his eyes took in her thin, bedraggled, barely recognizable form, made more shocking still by her bulging belly. The concern—and relief—on his face was obvious for all to see, however, and for the longest time he merely held her, despite the rain. Silva roughly embraced Pam as well, but shooed her inside with a muttered, “Later, doll. I’ll make it up to you. Promise.” Oddly, this time she knew he really would and obeyed without complaint. Silva still belonged entirely to Captain Reddy for the moment. She’d get him when his duty was done.
Neither Matt nor Sandra seemed to notice, even as his soiled whites and her tattered rags became soaked and Sandra’s hair turned to a stringy mop. “Never again,” was all she said.
“I sent you away to protect you,” Matt replied, furious at himself, what she’d endured, and how close he’d come to losing her.
“Never again,” Sandra repeated forcefully, looking up into his eyes. Even as the rain washed the tears and grime from her face, it also seemed to scour away the ordeal they symbolized. It would take far more than a little rain to loosen the pain, rage, and sorrow that held her heart and soul in its viselike grip, but it was a start. With great effort, she managed a smile. “You’re stuck with me until the end, sailor. I won’t leave you again, no matter what, so you’ll just have to change your silly rules about mates aboard ship.”
“Maybe I will,” he hedged, already thinking, No way will I risk her—and the baby—aboard in a fight. He didn’t mention it then, though. “In hindsight, on this world, in this war, it was kind of a stupid rule to start with,” he said instead.
“Yeah.”
Together, they stepped inside Kurokawa’s HQ, through the same door Sandra first entered a thousand years ago, it seemed. They were followed by Chack, Silva, Risa, and Lawrence, who’d remained outside to watch over them from a discreet distance.
Diania met them, holding her bandaged hand, her face clouded with worry. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Cap’n Reddy. On the ship—Savoie—what of Gunnery Sergeant Horn?” she asked.
Matt frowned. “Horn’s fine,” he assured her. “But he and Pokey are the only ones left. Becher Lange, Captain Brassey, and all the Khonashi died taking the bridge. Without them . . .” He shook his head. “Horn secured a prisoner, though, a Capitaine Dupont.” He nodded to himself when he saw Sandra’s and Diania’s faces both harden. From his brief encounter with the man, he hadn’t expected Dupont had behaved in a way that would ingratiate him to the people Savoie brought here. He wanted to hang him, but might have to settle for some kind of deal in exchange for information about the League. That reminded him. “Kurokawa?” he asked simply.
“He’s dead, Skipper,” Silva piped up with a quick protective glance at Sandra. “Plumb layin’-on-the ground, starin’-at-the-sky, tongue-hangin’-out, eye-witness dead this time.” He jerked a thumb out back. “I told Minaa I’d hold him up so’s he can piss on him later. Them Shee-ree are weird like that. Course, it might be good for morale if we lined up ever-body to”—he glanced at Sandra and Diania—“uh, relieve theirselfs on his dead ass. Water the bushes, as it were,” he added cryptically.