Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(39)
Matt had been watching the sunset and speaking with Commander Russ Chappelle whenever Santa Catalina’s skipper stepped out on the port bridgewing to observe the channel. Russ had started out as a torpedoman and wasn’t a “born” officer. He had, in fact, once reminded Matt more of Silva than he was entirely comfortable with, when it came to giving him what was arguably the most powerful ship in their Navy. In appearance, the two men could’ve been brothers. Both were tall, blond, and bearded. But Chappelle wasn’t Silva, and he’d become a fine officer whether he’d ever been cut out for it or not. Santy Cat was in good hands. Now, nodding to the lookout, Matt stepped down the long metal stair to the main deck below.
The sea was brisker past the point and the old ship took on a gentle, corkscrewing wallow as she shouldered the waves aside. He looked to the west again as he strode aft down the ship’s port side, occasionally nodding at Lemurians and Imperial humans in Chack’s 1st Raider Brigade. Maybe it’s just my imagination, he thought, but it sure seems like the sunsets are more spectacular ever since Talaud Island blew its top. He’d been thinking about that a lot lately: the volcanic eruption that shattered an island and nearly killed his wife. He’d also thought about the circumstances that put her in danger in the first place—and how he’d behaved at the time.
He’d thought Sandra and the then-Princess Rebecca, as well as a number of their other people, were in the hands of a madman. And it turned out that their alliance with—and the very survival of—the Empire of the New Britain Isles had been at stake. But he’d selfishly reprioritized a number of things, at least in his mind, to a dangerous degree. It may have turned out for the best, but it probably shouldn’t have, in retrospect. Now, though the current situation was similar on its face, he was sure Sandra—and more of their people—were in the clutches of a maniac at least as diabolical, and even more capricious than Walter Billingsly and Harrison Reed ever were. And Hisashi Kurokawa was certainly more dangerous to the survival of the Alliance and the success of their original cause in the West: to defeat the Grik. But Matt was deathly afraid he was doing exactly the same thing he’d done before—possibly subordinating the war effort to his own personal ends—and this time that was precisely what their bitterest enemy wanted.
He eased through more of Chack’s troops, taking a final glance at the sunset, a smile fixed rigidly on his face for the benefit of watchers. If it weren’t for all the gray steel around him, the water—and the short, furry people, of course—the sunset might’ve reminded him of those he’d seen nearly every evening as a boy in the central Texas sky. But that old home was farther away—in so many ways—than he could even wrap his mind around, and he rarely thought about it anymore. This was home now, these people were his cause, and he had no time for nostalgia. Particularly when his mind was so busy planning, evaluating, and worrying about screwing everything up. And the most insidious thing of all was that he was just as concerned his “objective” analysis of his previous behavior might overly influence him toward misplaced caution, undermining his instinctive evaluation of the situation. His gut had often served him better than his untrained and imperfect strategic thinking, after all.
A full half of Chack’s Brigade was aboard, choking the ship’s upper decks, and they respectfully parted before him as he walked. The rest of the brigade was aboard Arracca. The carrier and her battlegroup would follow the old freighter-turned–armored cruiser out to the open sea, as she always did when nightfall—and the near-certain air raid accompanying it—loomed. But this time, they wouldn’t be back at dawn. Nearing the rear of the armored casemate forming much of Santy Cat’s superstructure and protecting six heavy 5.5″ rifles salvaged from Amagi, Matt stared aft at the darkened city. Arracca’s huge form was getting underway, half her escorts dashing out ahead, but the city itself was dominated by the squat black form of the Cowflop. Such an awful damn place, he thought, to cost so much precious blood. I wonder if it’ll still be ours the next time I see it—if I see it again—or if we’ll have to pay more to get it back.
He shook his head and stepped into Santy Cat’s oddly incongruous dining salon, surprised to find it almost empty. Only Courtney Bradford and Juan Marcos, the peg-legged Filipino who’d proclaimed himself chief steward to the CINCAF (Commander in Chief of All Allied Forces), occupied the strangely decorative space. Courtney probably should’ve stayed at Grik City and taken a Clipper straight down to the Republic city of Songze, but he’d chosen to join Matt for this short voyage to Mahe first. Most of the Clippers gathering there were going down to the Comoros Islands, to stage for a series of raids against Sofesshk. He’d take one of those. Now he and Juan sat on a pair of rocking chairs, of all things, knocked up to the Filipino’s specifications “for Cap-tan Chappelle” by the ship’s carpenter. Every chair and stool on the ship had been replaced as the result of a recent prank run amok, and Matt was impressed by the craftsmanship. In her Old World role as a naval auxiliary, Santa Catalina often carried passengers, primarily naval officers, who expected a few comforts. The dining salon was one. During her rebuild, with an eye toward her possible role as a flagship, the salon was actually made more spacious, comfortable, and even ornate in the Lemurian way, embellished with fine tapestries and woodwork. The new chairs had to match.
“Oh. Good evening,” Matt said as the Filipino stood, apparently horrified his captain had caught him doing nothing. Courtney stayed where he was, nodding with a smile, both hands wrapped protectively around a cup.