Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(22)
“Then us should sink her now,” Lawrence said simply. “’Hy not us just sink her?”
“Beats me, little buddy. But the Skipper’s got a reason, sure. You know he wants to.” Dennis could tell who was who now. Captain Reddy was there, as was Colonel Chack-Sab-At and his beloved Orphan Queen of B’mbaado, General Safir Maraan. Courtney Bradford was holding another wide hat, practically a sombrero, on his balding head, and Silva realized he must have a dozen of the things, as many as he’d lost. Major Alistair Jindal of the Empire of the New Britain Isles stood beside him, acting prepared to catch the hat if the breeze took it. A number of guards stood a little back. These were Lemurian regulars and Marines, a couple Impie Marines, and even a few “Maroons.” Maroons were distantly related to Impies in the sense that all their earliest ancestors had been part of a three-ship convoy of East Indiamen brought to this world in the middle of the eighteenth century. After they arrived, the Maroons sailed west, trying to make their way back to England, and wound up here. The other two ships went east and founded the Empire.
Facing the Allied delegation was a tall, dark-haired man named Capitaine de Fregate Victor Gravois, dressed as a French naval officer. The slightest mustache, grown a bit unruly of late, adorned his upper lip, and he was clearly making an effort to appear undisturbed by the swarming, biting insects. He’d been joined on the dock by several of Leopardo’s officers, dressed all in white, and Silva finally understood why he’d been told his usual T-shirt and dungarees wouldn’t do. If the goombahs are gonna get all duded up, I guess we should too, he thought, smoldering. And then there’s that Gravois bastard. . . . He’s slippier’n Geerki, in all the worst ways. At least Geerki’s kinda one of us, an’ he’s tryin’ to help. Gravois’s a bad frog, just out for himself—an’ his goddamn League. Silva still hadn’t figured out which enjoyed the Frenchman’s greater loyalty.
His eye went to Captain Reddy, searching for a clue as to what was going on in his skipper’s mind—and maybe a hint about how the captain expected him to play this. Ol’ Gray always knew what to do or say in situations like this, Dennis lamented. Whether to rant an’ rave, threaten, or poke—to throw a scare at whoever he was talkin’ to—or keep his damn trap shut. He smirked. Or do somethin’ to crack ’em up an’ break the tension. I don’t know if I’m cut out for that, even if that’s prob’ly why the Skipper wants me here. I’m just used to gettin’ pointed at what needs killin.’ But try as he might, he caught no sign from Captain Reddy as he and Lawrence approached. He looks tired, sure. We all are. He still looks mad too. Well, he ain’t alone in that. That bastard Gravois an’ his League gave Kurokawa a goddamn battleship! I don’t care how he says it happened. There’s no way it could have if he didn’t want it to. Silva also knew his captain was desperately worried about his wife, but nothing of that leaked past his fury. He’d never let them see that. Guess mad’s the order o’ the day, Silva decided, so I reckon I’ll poke.
Gravois finally swatted at a mayfly that landed on his nose and took a bite, but turned the motion into a gesture encompassing the bay. “But where is your poor little ship, your Walker?” he asked. “I’d hoped to bid her farewell myself—and show her specifically to Capitano di Fregata Ciano, of course.” He nodded at one of the Italian officers. “Ciano is always trying to distinguish himself,” Gravois explained, “and your ship’s example cannot help but make an impression on him, regarding how he might accomplish that.”
“It’s none of your concern where USS Walker is,” Matt snapped. “In fact, the only reason we’re letting you go instead of hanging you as an accessory to the murder of thousands of wounded troops and the sinking of three of our ships—not to mention the intelligence and material aid you’ve given our enemy—is so you can personally convey our ‘greetings’ to your leaders”—his lip twisted—“your triumvirate in Tripoli. And you better tell them that we finally know exactly what you’ve been up to out here.” If possible, Matt’s expression hardened. “We don’t give a damn what you do in the Mediterranean, but you better quit sneaking around and sniping at the edges of our fight, here or in the Pacific. From now on, you stay the hell out of our war—unless you want in it. All the damn way.”
Gravois raised an eyebrow, but nodded. “In all honesty, Captain Reddy, that’s precisely what I will tell them.” He gave a long-suffering sigh. “It’s what I’ve told them from the start, in fact. The League has concerns enough of its own, as I’ve alluded to; the very reason we’ve been unwilling to lend greater resources to either side in this—please pardon me for characterizing it so—this backwater struggle.” He shrugged. “As you now know, it has merely been our desire to ensure that neither you nor the Grik—with Kurokawa’s aid—grew strong enough to become a threat to us.” He paused thoughtfully. “That strategy was perhaps misguided. Particularly in respect to the ‘horse’ we bet on.” He shook his head sadly. “That couldn’t have been made more abundantly clear than by Kurokawa’s sinking of the hospital ship you refer to and the abduction of . . . certain members of its company.” Chack bristled, and Courtney Bradford took a step forward, his face turning red. No one believed Kurokawa already controlled Savoie at that point. The fact that there’d been some survivors was sufficient evidence of that for most. And then to refer to Sandra and the others being in Kurokawa’s hands . . . It had to be an attempt to rattle them. But if he’d meant to get a rise out of Matt, he failed.