Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(167)
“Sure,” Matt said. “One of our AVDs in the strait saw ’em, but even if her Nancy hadn’t been over the harbor, it wouldn’t’ve had a chance.” He waited while a Sky Priest spoke some of the words for the dead. “And a Type Ninety-five floatplane was seen. Fukui said it was the same one that bombed Baalkpan so long ago, and Muriname—their air force commander and Kurokawa’s XO—has been hoarding it. It’s likely he flew it out.”
“Muriname’s a . . . complicated person,” Sandra said, frowning, her eyes narrowing. “I think he had honor once and would like to have it back.” She glanced at Diania, a short distance away with Gunny Horn, his arm protectively around Diania’s shoulders. Her hand was still wrapped—it would never work right again—but for the first time in a long while she seemed content. “He protected us, after a fashion,” Sandra continued, “but I never figured out if it was for honor or himself.” She shrugged. “He actually told me he’d gone insane when we first got here, but I don’t know if it’s true. He’s not as crazy as Kurokawa at least.” She shuddered. “Or Gravois. That guy may be even crazier than Kurokawa was.” She frowned. “That reminds me, though. Rizzo.”
“That League Major who Kurokawa shot?”
“Yes. He kept saying it wasn’t his war and he had his own way out.”
Keje looked at her. “I understand some of his ground crew was captured.”
Matt nodded for his wife. Between Dupont and six others taken aboard Savoie, and the twenty-odd pilots and mechanics, they finally had plenty of Leaguers to squeeze, giving them a plausible means of obtaining the same information Fiedler left him in his private letter. He’d kept it private too, except for Ben and Safir, who’d read it already, not only so it couldn’t “spill” and possibly compromise his source, but also because everyone already had enough to worry about. The pertinent parts came toward the end, detailing much of what the League had in terms of ships, planes, armor, and manpower, not to mention the murky political situation and barbaric methods the League used to fortify its position in the Mediterranean. He’d read that part often enough to memorize it, and it was daunting indeed. He considered the final lines:
You understand honor, Kapitan, and know why I am torn between assisting your cause and my conscience. Yet your humane treatment of me after all you’ve endured at the hands of the League has convinced me that my honor cannot allow me to sit by and watch those who have none destroy your people. I will pass what information I may, to help you defend against League schemes—yet I cannot help should it ever come to open war between our people. To that end, I close with a plea: no matter the provocation, you must never allow yourself to be lured into direct conflict with the League. Not only could I no longer aid you, but you cannot possibly hope to prevail. The disparity of forces is simply too great. Please do be insulted when I say, no matter how valorous the mouse, it cannot slay the wolf.
With their new prisoners, Matt could finally share the letter and the list of ships that, to the best of Fiedler’s recollection, composed the League fleet—not that he was certain even now that was a good idea. But when the squeezing started, they’d learn, anyway. He mentally shook himself. “There were no League planes left,” he said.
“Then how did Rizzo mean to escape?” Keje asked.
Sandra shrugged and Matt said nothing. According to Fiedler, there’d been at least one more League sub in the Indian, or “Western,” Ocean. If that was true, where did it fuel? Where is it now? That was another reason Matt was anxious about Salissa’s and Tara’s screen. Maybe we’ll get it out of Dupont. . . .
The funeral was winding down and the usual big drunk that normally followed had been postponed until they returned to Mahe. Dozens of boats were waiting at the dock, ready to return the attendees to their duties. Matt was surprised to see Spanky step ashore from the Seven boat, which must’ve brought him across. He’d skipped the funeral because of repairs to Walker, but now he was here, wearing a very grim expression. Sandra took a sudden sharp breath and clutched Matt’s arm.
“Esshk is out, isn’t he?” Matt demanded, throwing out the worst possible scenario he could imagine.
“Uh, no, Skipper,” Spanky said, taking a message form from his pocket and unfolding it.
My God, Matt thought, how I hate the very sight of those things! He glanced to the side and saw Keje, Bernie, Tikker, Silva and Pam, Horn and Diania, Jarrik-Fas, and dozens of others watching. “But it’s bad enough that Ed asked you to bring it?”
“Bad enough I took it from him,” Spanky countered. “He already thinks you hate looking at him.”
“Not him,” Matt sighed.
“I know.” Spanky held the message out.
“Just tell me what it says.” Matt waved around. “Tell us all.”
Spanky cleared his throat. “Esshk isn’t out,” he stressed, “not exactly. But a flight of Nancys off Arracca on a dusk raid must’a caught ’em by surprise. The Grik’re getting ready to come out, sure enough. Their fleet’s assembling in that lake west o’ Sofesshk, and the Nancys spotted hundreds of oared galleys on shore, bein’ carried down close to the water—goddamn galleys, for Christ’s sake—practically floatin’ on Grik, rarin’ to go.”