Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(171)
“I’ll try.”
Blas gestured at the tent. “What do you think they’ll come up with? They won’t have us march east, will they?”
Shinya shook his head. “No. That’s ridiculous. They’ll order an attack on the Pass of Fire, from land and sea. Admirals Jenks and Lela, General Blair, and myself—and you, Major Blas—will plan it as carefully as we can.” He frowned. “And it’ll be the biggest, bloodiest mess we’ve ever seen—on this side of the world.” Then he smiled rather ruefully. “But it makes the most sense, and a lot more than what I had you doing. Besides, it’s all there is, and it’s time.” He shrugged. “Hopefully, it’ll even work.”
USS Donaghey (DD-2)
South of Cuba
USS Donaghey’s comm-’Cat didn’t contact Fred Reynolds until the day before the two battered frigates, carrying more prisoners than crew, would’ve made Santiago Bay. It was good he finally did, because lower sea levels had choked the narrow entry and the bay didn’t exist where they thought it should. There was only a pleasant, scenic lake, made brackish by storm and tidal surges, and the land around it was only sparsely inhabited by farmers growing something similar to sugar beets and real tobacco. The “actual” Santiago Bay, founded by the Dominion and now the largest NUS naval station in the Caribbean, was in south-central Cuba, where Manzanilla Bay would’ve been. Their understandable mix-up corrected, Donaghey and Matarife altered course, and the heavy NUS steam frigate Congress was dispatched to meet them. After another night of favorable winds carrying unusual but welcome island smells, Donaghey’s lookout spotted a sail, then two, then quite a few smaller ones on the brightening horizon.
“The larger are probably NUS warships,” Greg told Pol-Heena. “They’re flying their weird, five-stars-and-stripes flag from every masthead, probably so we won’t think they’re Doms. Sparks said the little one’s a corvette that Congress invited to join her.” He grinned. “There’re two of us, and who’s to say we’re not Doms, trying a trick?”
“Everyone must be careful these days, it seems,” Pol agreed, glancing at Greg. He didn’t blink, but his tail betrayed a trace of nervousness. He tended to dwell on his behavior prior to their encounter with the League destroyer. As far as Greg was concerned, Pol more than made up for it by saving his life. But he’d been less talkative since, except to report on his conversations with the young League ensign. Greg had invited Ensign Perez Mole to a Spartan dinner with Donaghey’s officers, but Mole hardly spoke and it wound up an awkward affair. Yet he seemed more open with Pol-Heena alone. Maybe he sensed that Pol had been against a hostile confrontation, or perhaps still hoped the Republic was an uneasy member of the Alliance—something he’d confessed his superiors believed. Or maybe their appearance was enough to make people perceive Lemurians as less belligerent, more sympathetic creatures in general. They were comparatively small and furry, with long, plush tails and big eyes, after all. Mole wouldn’t be the first human to make that mistake. Citizens of the Empire of the New Britain Isles found it difficult not to pet them . . . before they saw them fight.
Come to that, maybe Pol-Heena remained tense because of the nuggets he gleaned from Mole? Greg had no idea what Captain Reddy might’ve discovered about the League in his absence, but they’d always assumed it must be large and powerful if it could send Savoie, a submarine, and now a destroyer and its armed tender—at least—to far-flung places, solely for the apparent purpose of stirring up trouble. (Tomas had warned them not to tangle with Antúnez’s tender, the Ramb V, which was apparently armed similarly to the Allies’ Santa Catalina.) The reason he named and described the ship was undoubtedly to spare his own captive crew in the event of a meeting. And one of the last, fragmentary, cautionary messages Greg received from Captain Reddy, via Alex-aandra, had been to watch for a powerful League ship named Leopardo. Perez Mole refused to elaborate on her or itemize the League’s resources, but confirmed with conviction that the Alliance hadn’t seen anything yet. This had been the universal contention of every League officer they’d met.
“If they’re so damn powerful, why don’t they just finish us off?” Smitty had demanded, as frustrated as the rest.
“For the reason they always give,” Pol had replied. “They’re preoccupied elsewhere. They expect us all to weaken ourselves sufficiently, fighting one another, to minimize any threat we might pose.”
“Yeah,” Greg agreed, then asked, “But what are they preoccupied with? Another enemy? Internal strife? Sealing their hold on the Med? Or just a lack of resources, like fuel, for instance.”
“Whaat-ever it is,” Lieutenant Mak-Araa had said, “it must be less bothersome than before, based on recent aactions.” His point had caused gloomy blinking around Donaghey’s wardroom table.
Now there was an air of excitement, however, as Donaghey and Matarife closed with Congress, her consort, and half a dozen small sloops, apparently curious fishing boats. Soon, the NUS ships were near enough to see clearly, and Greg was impressed. They were amazingly similar to the Allies’ Scott class, but he couldn’t tell how many guns they carried. Their sides were painted black, their gunports closed. Both ships took in their sails, closing under steam, with blue smoke wafting to leeward.