Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(40)

“I, ah . . . There’s coffee,” Juan said defensively, waving enthusiastically at the large silver pot standing on the table.

“Mmm,” Matt said neutrally, regarding the pot with caution. One of the longest-held secrets of the war had been broken, and Juan finally knew Captain Reddy hated what he did to the ersatz coffee they’d been forced to use on this world. It tasted vile and produced a greasy green foam atop the coal-black brew. Some could make it palatable, but Juan never mastered it. Worse, he thought he had, and no one had been willing to hurt his feelings—until they just couldn’t stand it anymore.

Juan straightened. “I did not make it,” he assured glumly with a quick glance at Bradford. “And I do think you will find it interesting,” he added. Then he brightened. “You wanna eat? I will bring you something to eat!”

“I’d love a bite,” Courtney said. “Captain Reddy?”

“Sure, Juan. Whatever’s handy.” Matt nodded at Courtney. “And make sure Mr. Bradford and I have a few minutes, if you please. I won’t keep Commander Chappelle out of his own wardroom”—he managed a real grin—“his dining salon. But you might ask anyone else who comes along for a little patience.”

“Of course, Cap-tan Reddy! No one shall pass!” Juan hesitated. “And do sample the coffee,” he added grudgingly.

“I will.”

They waited a moment while Juan quickly poured a cup—it did smell different—and then latched the hatches port and starboard before clomping forward, up the passageway toward the officers’ galley.

“Oh, sit down,” Courtney commanded. “You look dead on your feet. Worse, you look like a flashy ate your puppy. Can’t go around like that, you know. There’s morale to consider, don’t you see? Of course.”

Matt lowered himself into the vacated rocker and it creaked comfortingly in its joints and on the wooden deck. Then he glanced at the cup. Shrugging, he picked it up and brought it near his lips. He stopped suddenly when the full force of the aroma hit him—and he saw the anticipation in Courtney’s eyes. “This is coffee,” he said simply. “Isn’t it? Real coffee.”

Courtney grinned. “Yes, as a matter of fact. It’s still a bit odd, you’ll see. Slightly, oh, I don’t know . . . woody?” He seemed discontent with the description. “Perhaps a different grind or roasting technique . . .”

“Where’d you get it?” Matt interrupted in wonder, taking a sip at last. “My God,” he practically moaned, savoring the taste. Courtney was right: it was unusual compared to what he’d grown accustomed to, but it could’ve been exactly the same as what Walker brought to this world, for all he knew; it had been so long since he’d tasted anything like it. All that mattered was that it was real coffee—and it was good. “Can we get more?” he immediately demanded.

“We can have all we want,” Courtney assured, “as long as we hold Madagascar,” he qualified. “It grows wild in the lands of the Shee-Ree and they pick the little red cherries, eating them as they stroll along.” His eyes widened in horror. “Such a waste! But it stands to reason, actually. Coffee was indigenous to the Madagascar of our world, as was all vanilla. I’ll certainly enquire about that, I assure you. Just imagine: vanilla! For the present however, for the sake of the war effort, of course—since even Lemurians are becoming such fiends for caffeine—I considered the introduction of this Shee-Ree coffee of primary importance.”

“When did you find it?” Matt asked.

Courtney waved his hand. “While on our little trek down south. I packed a few handfuls away and arranged for more to be brought back whenever arms and supplies are flown down.”

“Hmm. Then it seems Silva’s not the only one who can keep a secret.”

“No indeed. Not that I meant to, at all,” Courtney hastily added. “Nor did Mr. Silva have any idea. I doubt it ever occurred to him that coffee begins its life as sweet little berries! Otherwise, I merely wanted to make absolutely sure to, ah, experiment a bit before revealing my discovery to the world.” He gestured grandly, and Matt took another long, satisfying gulp. “My God,” he said quietly again. Then, carefully, he set the cup aside and closed his eyes, massaging his forehead with his hand.

Courtney leaned forward in alarm. “Are . . . are you all right, Captain Reddy?”

Matt glanced up, frowned, then nodded. “Yeah. As well as anybody. It’s just kind of pathetic that I can be emotionally overwhelmed by a good cup of joe.”

Courtney’s features softened. “Not pathetic at all. I was quite affected myself.” His bushy brows furrowed. “And you’re doing a great deal better than anyone else I can imagine, whose wife and unborn child are in the hands of a murdering madman,” he added gently.

Matt shrugged again, then cocked his head to the side, regarding the Australian. Aside from Sandra, Bradford was the only one he’d ever been able to unburden to, particularly when it came to things like doubt. That was probably because Bradford had been a civilian and when they were alone, Matt didn’t have to be the all-knowing, ever-confident CINCAF everyone else, even his closest friends like Keje, must believe him to be. Chief Gray was never fooled, and had a talent for bolstering Matt’s self-assurance with an oblique comment or even a simple glance. But Gray was dead, Sandra was a hostage—at best—and that left only Courtney. And the Australian had gone through tough times of his own, which Matt discreetly shook him out of. That created a bond of perfect honesty and confidentiality both needed from somebody. Still, neither abused the privilege, and their private talks were rare. In Courtney’s case, he’d significantly improved. His drinking had reverted from dependency to recreational status, and, frankly, he considered any lingering personal problems too inconsequential to add to Matthew Reddy’s weighty responsibilities. Matt was equally conscious that, while never knowingly indiscreet, Courtney was affected by the apprehensions he revealed. They became his own, and not only was that somewhat cruel, Matt thought, but others might notice his guarded concern and guess the source. It could also push him back to drink. It had before. But Matt desperately needed an objective opinion. He sighed.