Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(34)
“Swell,” Spanky growled. “Now King Neptune himself, an’ all his pollywogs’re here, to add to my misery.”
The traditional “crossing the line” ceremonies had languished on this world, not because Lemurians were averse to them or amusing celebrations in general, but because most of Walker’s earliest ’Cat volunteers were seafarers themselves and, due to proximity, had crossed the equator countless times without taking notice of the unknown fact. Besides, they’d spent so much time on the equator, there was nothing particularly special about it. Scuttlebutt was that Greg Garrett allowed King Neptune aboard when Donaghey rounded the Cape of Africa. Maybe the tradition would catch on to mark the passage into unknown seas?
“Cheer up, Spanky,” Alden urged. “It’ll be fine.” He waved at Lanier. “And besides, maybe somethin’ll get him this time.”
Something almost did. In a sudden flurry of frothing motion, a shape about seven feet long, with a segmented shell, which had apparently crouched in the shadow of the ship, darted out from between a pair of blocks and right at Earl Lanier. Whatever it was—a roughly oval-shaped centipede with way too many legs and slashing mandibles sprang to mind—was dark, almost blue-black, and amazingly fast. Earl instinctively flung his spear, which bounced harmlessly off the thick carapace, and then turned to flee. He splashed frantically away for perhaps three steps before the thing was on him. With a high-pitched wail, Earl went down and the . . . bug?-crustacean? scrambled atop the flailing, sputtering mound of flesh and kept on going.
“Hold you fire!” a female Lemurian PO bellowed nearby at a machine-gun crew that spun its weapon around and was trying to line up on the galloping creature. “You shoot up you own ship, you stupid shits?” she demanded. Finally, the surging thing disappeared aft, into the deep, and Earl Lanier slowly stood. Blood stained his wet T-shirt, probably where the sharp, uncounted legs pierced his back, but he didn’t look seriously injured. Hesitantly, relieved Lemurian laughter began. Soon it became a high-pitched roar, joined by the throb of stamping feet. Shaking his head, Earl picked up his soggy hat and plopped it on his head, then retrieved his spear. Without a word to his fishing party (also laughing helplessly), he urged them insistently on and they resumed the hunt.
“Gotta give the dumb-ass credit,” Alden grudged, still chuckling himself. Lanier had always been obsessed with catching—and eating—fish, and sought any opportunity to harvest his favorite food. It didn’t matter that many ships in the fleet lowered fishing nets almost daily and there was never a shortage. He wanted to catch his own. “He definitely stays focused on his priorities.”
“Somethin’ll get him one of these days,” Spanky predicted optimistically around a smile that had involuntarily formed.
Within minutes, Earl’s party completed its adventure and dragged the tub to a hoist that lifted it from the basin. Earl and his fish warriors quickly followed and the entertainment was at an end. At no time had the cranes stopped working.
“Saanty Caat and Arracca and her battle group should be here tomorrow,” Keje stated, getting back to business. “Have you prepared a place to put Chack’s Brigade?”
“Yes,” Rolak said, answering for Alden. “With difficulty,” he confessed wryly. “Maa-he is not large, and is excessively, ah, hilly. In addition to the space required for the near forty-six thousand troops of First and Third Corps, not to mention the fit survivors of the ships we lost, even now training as infantry, few flat places remain. How we will manage when the First North Borno arrives, I cannot say.”
Keje huffed. “We will deal with that when the time comes. They are still weeks away. The bulk of the army may even have sailed by the time they arrive.” He blinked discontentedly.
“What’s the matter, Admiral?” Alden asked.
Keje sighed. “Only, along with my concern over our friends in Kuro-kaa-wa’s hands, I remain not skeptical, but . . . apprehensive, regarding Arracca’s and Saanty Caat’s initial role in the campaign against Sofesshk.” He was clearly thinking about Tassanna-Ay-Arracca, the other Home-turned-carrier’s high chief, slated to be commodore of that task force. Everyone knew a relationship was blooming between Keje and Tassanna, despite their age difference. Things like that mattered little to Lemurians. But risk to Tassanna alone wouldn’t have made Keje express concern, either. “They will be very exposed,” he continued. “Almost . . . bait.”
“Maybe a little,” Alden agreed somberly. “But if anybody can take care of themselves, it’s Tassanna—and Russ Chappelle in Santy Cat. They will draw attention while they’re hitting Sofesshk with Arracca’s planes, but that’ll keep Esshk’s eyes off the South, where the Republic’s about ready to kick off. We need that,” he said simply. “Besides, they’ll also be keeping more Grik forces from landing in South Madagascar. There may already be more than Miles and his army of Shee-Ree and Maroons, or the troops we’ll leave at Grik City, can handle.”
“But will the Republic truly strike?” Keje asked gloomily. “We place all our hopes on an ally that has proven . . . less than reli-aable.”
The Republic’s representative, Doocy Meek, was at Mahe, but wasn’t with them. He was aboard Big Sal, for his daily wireless consultations with his government.
Pete Alden spread his hands. “Doocy says so. We have to trust him. And taken with Bekiaa’s word, I do.”