Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(21)

Long, narrow trenches were everywhere as well, in addition to the more extensive fortifications, carefully arranged along company streets to promote drainage when it rained and give troops a place to ride out the frequent raids. There wasn’t much danger from those anymore. Not only were fewer zeppelins attacking at last, their lashed-together formations sometimes consisting of fewer than fifty airships now, but the extra planes that recently arrived, crated in the holds of fast transports, meant they had nearly enough for all their pilots again and they’d savaged the latest zep formations with the new, faster, and more heavily armed P-1C Mosquito Hawks, or “Fleashooters.” Besides, oddly enough, after an initial apparent reluctance to bomb the palace, most Grik bombs now fell on or near it. That made no sense to anyone, unless losses among Grik aviators had left the rest so poor that all they could be trusted to hit was the biggest target they could see—or the raids truly were meant primarily to gall them and remind them that the Grik hadn’t forgotten them. The palace was practically impervious to Grik bombs.

The works they stood on were the most lightly defended of any surrounding the city. Heavy batteries of captured Grik guns, carefully protected from the sea and sky, now guarded the mouth of the bay and should be sufficient to keep them secure. These works were just in case the enemy somehow got past. In that event, reserves would quickly fill them. At least that was the plan. Their greatest fear was that the Grik might manage to attack everywhere again, with a larger, more capable force than before. If that ever happened, there’d be no reserves.

Dennis and Lawrence had been heading toward the great, long docks on the south side of the bay, and Silva waved at mayflies and pointed. “Looky there,” he said. Not far away, where the docks began, a huge, counterbalanced wooden crane was hoisting iron plates off the wreckage of a half-sunken Grik battlewagon, while the exposed carcass swarmed with Lemurian yard workers, troops detailed to help, and even a few civilian Grik. The latter were performing the most dangerous tasks, but Hij Geerki, General Muln-Rolak’s pet, was acting as the Grik “mayor” and had assured Safir Maraan they’d volunteered. Silva kind of doubted that. Ol’ Geerki’s a slippery little lizard, he thought, tryin’ to make the nasty critters he’s responsible for seem worth feedin’. Either way, he didn’t much care. Grik were murderous animals, as far as he was concerned, and he genuinely enjoyed killing them. It even struck him as ironic that he’d learned to discriminate Grik from Grik-like so well. After all, Lawrence was one of his very best friends, and he liked I’joorka and the Grik-like members of the Khonashi in northern Borno just fine. But killing “real” Grik had become his very favorite thing to do, and the fact that they’d slaughtered such a high percentage of the relatively few people he ever cared about was enough to make him want them all dead, even if that resulted in an end to his calling. Oh, well, he consoled himself. I’ll find a new hobby. Wherever you go, somebody always needs killin’.

A multiton plate cleared the wreckage, the crane swiveling to the side to lay it on a stack piling up on land. Beyond that, several more cranes were doing the same, and another erected on a massive, flat barge was salvaging a wreck farther out from the dock. And the bay was crowded with more than just wrecks. The great Home-turned–aircraft carrier, USNRS Arracca, was moored in the center of the bay, surrounded by what remained of her battlegroup, consisting of four steam frigate (DDs) of Des-Ron 9, and more than a dozen auxiliaries. Hopefully, she’d soon be joined by Madras and her brand-new air wing and battlegroup. Two fast transports were alongside Arracca now, sending crated aircraft aboard, while one of the first of their big steam oilers waited to top off her bunkers. The former general cargo hauler and now protected cruiser Santa Catalina crouched between Arracca and the shore, her still slightly unusual “dazzle” paint scheme distorting her lines. Four PT boats of MTB-Ron 1 patrolled inside the harbor mouth, and what remained of Des-Ron 10 sailed offshore, keeping watch, their engines secured.

There was an unusually large number of planes overhead today as well, flying in formation back and forth, ostensibly practicing maneuvers. The primary reason for that was the two “strangers” in the bay. The first was a small, nondescript Spanish oiler, looking considerably worse for wear. But the second was long and sleek, with a sharp, straight-up-and-down bow lying just inside Santa Catalina. She was the Leone class destroyer, Leopardo; a third longer than USS Walker, twice as heavy, and armed with twice as many, bigger guns. More unnerving, not only did she most assuredly not look like she’d been beaten apart and patched together several times, but in addition to the flag of the Kingdom of Italy fluttering at her fantail, the bizarre fascist banner of the League of Tripoli stood straight out from her foremast, high above the first of her two stacks. The only consolation, such as it was under the circumstances, was that Leopardo couldn’t be anxious for a fight. Her decks, and those of the oiler, were crammed with what was reportedly the majority of Savoie’s crew.

“Santy Cat could take her,” Silva said, nodding at what he considered an enemy ship. “Close as they are, just sittin’ there,” he qualified, beginning to walk again and picking up the pace. He could see the group he’d been ordered to join assembled on the dock. “She’s got bigger guns—those five-fives—and can probably take more hits. But if that Leopardo gets on the loose, with her speed—an’ prob’ly torpedoes too—I wouldn’t give a chicken’s ass for Santy Cat’s chances.”