Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(35)
Keje looked unconvinced.
“Don’t worry,” Ben said. “When the Republic crashes into the Grik’s belly, it’ll yank their eyes right off Arracca—and that’s when Pete’ll hammer ’em with three full corps.” He considered. “Or vice versa, depending on the timing. Either way could work, and at least this plan has some flexibility built in.”
“I hope so,” Keje said. “My experience with plaans is that they rarely proceed as intended.”
“Plans’re for shit,” Spanky agreed grimly, spitting at the remaining inches of water below. “And I’ll tell you now, we maybe ain’t planned enough time to refit Walker, or do a hundred other things.” He pointed. Now that she rested high and dry on her blocks, far more oily water than could be accounted for continued to pour from her hull. “Open seams in her bottom, prob’ly from the grounding,” he said, then looked at Keje. “But I want in on the plan to get our people back from Kurokawa—an’ kill his sorry ass. Has anybody given that little thing any thought?”
“You can aask that?” Keje snapped, blinking angrily.
It was Ben’s turn to frown, nodding at Keje. “The Skipper, Admiral Keje, and Chack are cooking something up. But we have to make sure about the layout. That League Kraut drew the Skipper a rough map of the harbor, airfields, and industrial facilities, but he didn’t know much about what defenses they have. Apparently, none of his bunch had complete access to the place, and him less than the rest. But he saw a lot from the air, despite Kurokawa’s attempts to hide as much as he could, and was able to infer a lot based on what was obvious. He was certain about the harbor, the location of three airfields, and their main airplane-engine assembly plant, but a lot of the rest is educated guesswork. Still better than nothing—assuming he’s on the level,” Ben qualified in a cautionary tone. “Anyway, we’re sending the P-Forty floatplane up to have a look. It’ll rendezvous and refuel with AVDs we’ve had cruising between here and Zanzibar ever since Gravois told us where the Jap-Griks are. The plane’ll cross the enemy coastline just at dawn, catch the Jap-Griks by surprise as the sun rises, get a good close look before they react, and get the hell out.”
“Risky,” Spanky objected. “Not only for the plane an’ pilot, but it’ll ring the bell that we know where they are.”
Alden nodded. “Yeah, but just like we’re still piecing together what the AEF’ll run into at Sofesshk, knowing where Kurokawa is won’t do Captain Reddy much good if he doesn’t know what the bastard’s got waiting for him”—he looked at Spanky—“and you. And Walker an’ Big Sal . . . Not to mention Chack’s Brigade.” He shook his head and grimaced at Keje. “Sorry. Still not happy about splitting our forces so far apart.”
“I share your concern,” Keje agreed. “But our enemies are in two places. We cannot allow them to combine. It could be dis-aastrous if Kuro-kaa-wa moved Saavoie and the rest of his fleet to support General Esshk. My prefer-aance would be to destroy Kurokawa first, of course, and then move against Sofesshk, all together. But that would leave General Esshk free to make his move against Mada-gaas-gar . . . or, worse, respond with overwhelming force to the Republic’s attack in the South, while we are all engaged at Zanzibar. Believe me, Cap-i-taan Reddy and I have agonized over this straa-ti-gee, and see no other option.”
Alden frowned, but nodded. “Okay,” he said, looking at Ben. “But why the P-Forty? Last I heard, you were getting kinda low on those, and we might need every one you have.”
“We can’t use a Fleashooter,” Ben replied. “Their range is too short and they can’t land in the water to refuel. A Nancy would be easy meat for those Jap-Grik fighters. That leaves the P-Forty. Even with those dopey Jap floats stuck on it, it should be able to handle anything it runs into, or just run the hell away.” He glanced a little resentfully at Keje. “I’d rather fly the mission myself, of course, but the brass turned me down.”
“Do not be downcast, Col-nol Maal-lory,” Keje said with supreme indifference to the oblique complaint. “The braass is blessed to have three Salissa pilots checked out in that specific craaft, so there’s no reason for you, or any member of your Third Pursuit Squadron, to make the flight, regardless how many hours they have in Pee-Forties. None of your other pilots have ever taken off or landed on the sea.” He blinked amusement. “And due to the solitary nature of the flight, I refused Cap-i-taan Jis-Tikkar’s request as well. If I’m not prepared to risk Salissa’s Commander of Flight Operations on such a risky scout, I certainly cannot allow you, his superior, to go.” Keje grinned. “It might wound Tikker’s . . . fragile sense of self-value.”
Ben snorted and the others laughed. Tikker was the first Lemurian Ben ever taught to fly, and he’d embraced—and ably earned—a hotshot temperament extremely difficult to bruise. Even Spanky laughed at the absurdity of Keje’s defense . . . until his eye caught another group moving purposefully toward them. He groaned aloud.
The approaching delegation was led by Lieutenant Tab-At “Tabby,” Walker’s gray-furred Lemurian engineering officer. He loved Tabby like a daughter, but she still cherished a different—and unnatural, in his rationally considered view—affection for him, which could be difficult to deflect. At the moment, however, she was blinking consternation mixed with alarm. Marching behind her was the former fireman and now chief engineer Isak Reuben. Isak and his half brother, Gilbert, were the “original Mice,” once so insularly obsessed with Walker’s boilers that they almost never left their firerooms. This behavior left them singularly pallid, in an Asiatic Fleet that produced rather spectacular tans, and universally resented by their division. They got out more these days, making impressive contributions to the cause. First, they’d drawn on their pre-navy experience as wildcatters to design the rigs that ultimately produced the one material surplus the Alliance enjoyed: oil, to fuel the war effort. And while Gilbert was now in the East with Second Fleet, “King Snipe” and de-facto engineering officer in Maaka-Kakja, Isak had won notoriety as the slayer of the Grik Celestial Mother—and an unlikely power hitter, considering his short, wiry frame, on Walker’s baseball team. He wasn’t blinking as he approached, but his face was red with fury as he pounded the deck with an eight-foot section of shiny, silver-blue tubing with every step. Trotting behind the pair, eyes blinking alarm, were four ’Cats in colorful civilian kilts.