Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(54)

She actually found that rather comforting, that the Maker’s own Son—she thought he was Jeez, based on how often she’d heard that name called upon by hu-maans and Mi-Anakka—still cared for them, despite how he’d been treated. And she supposed she saw the attraction of believing that. A Maker of love, above and beyond the mere vaguely interested benevolence attributed to the Maker of her faith. She still found it odd there could be different kinds of Chiss-chins, but, then, her faith was just as subtly different from the Aryaalans. The fundamentals were the same, but Aryaalans thought the sun was the Maker, the moon His brother, and the Maker knew only what you did while one or the other was overhead. She believed the Maker made the sun and moon and was everywhere in the Heavens, watching all. The sun and moon were important, sure, as the most visible manifestations of His creation, and she faced them when she prayed. But she was no sun worshipper like those weird Aryaalans! Most Mi-Anakka shared one steadfast belief, however, that the stars in the Heavens were the souls of those who’d gone before. Why else would some gather in clan groups while others stayed to themselves?

She reached out and patted the chief’s arm in return. “And the Maker watch over you!” she shouted back. Then, when she was sure the chief and the lifting straps had all been raised clear and her plane was pointed away from the dark side of the AVD, she slammed and locked the canopy and advanced the throttle. Quickly, the unlikely aircraft gathered speed until it finally bounced into the air and Saansa-Belkaa hurtled northwest in the black, lonely night. She saw the stars better now, above the low-lying haze, and as always they gave her great comfort. But she had plenty of time, and under the circumstances it seemed appropriate to let her mind wander among the various notions of the Maker—and her life beyond the coming sunrise.

An hour and a half later, at five thousand feet, what had been a dark smear on the graying horizon became the dawn-spangled shape of Zanzibar. They’d debated whether she should make a high-or low-level observation and finally decided she’d be observed either way. It would be best to make the most of it. And Kurokawa had to know they’d be looking for him. An overflight might raise his guard, but that couldn’t be helped. And if the past was any guide, his paranoia might even move him to do something rash that they could take advantage of—if they knew about it in time. Besides, they had to learn what awaited them, and having a good, close look was the only way. Saansa glanced at the smooth board strapped to her leg, with a copy of the map the League Kraaut Fiedler drew, and was surprised to see she’d apparently made landfall near the northeast end of the island. There’s that Notion Isle, she thought, right where it should be. She decided to continue on to Lizard Mouth Bay and then turn south. The island was only about fifty miles long, north to south, and if she followed the single road, she could check Tailbone Bay and still hit Lizard Ass Bay, where Kurokawa’s primary facilities were supposed to be, before anyone knew she was coming. She began her descent.

She also pressed the Push to Talk button near the throttle and began describing what she saw to Keshaa-Faask’s radio operator, using the made-up place-names on the island along with apparently random, nonsensical words for the various features she confirmed, as well as their relative directions and distances from the place-names. They knew the League, at least, had learned Lemurian, and they could no longer use it to speak in the clear. In retrospect, doing it at all had been a terrible mistake, and they must always assume the baad guys were listening. At the same time, however, Saansa had to report in real time in case she didn’t make it back. The easy answer was to use the apparent gibberish she’d been practicing for the last couple of days. The AVD wouldn’t respond; the enemy might have radio-direction finding gear, and Saansa worried whether she was actually being heard. But “Kay-Eff” had been chosen as the closest picket because she had the very latest comm gear. She’d have to trust to that.

She reported shore batteries, poodles, that looked like the big hundred-pounders the Grik BBs used, covering the approach to Lizard Mouth Bay. And the next such emplacements she described would be “gri-kakka.” After that would come “Dixie cups,” “akka feet,” and so on. The repair yard in the bay was a “grawfish,” and the small tent city she picked out of the jungle, probably sheltering the Grik workforce or garrison, was a “soda straw,” and it was “poot” (meaning to the south). Those names would change as well, following the list marked down the side of the map on her leg. Distances were the most difficult and would give the enemy the best chance to decode the rest, so she alternated her estimates in tails or miles, using preselected multiples. Obviously, the map must never fall into enemy hands, even if destroying it was the last thing she ever did.

The jungle was thick, but she picked out a well-worn trace meandering to the southeast and followed it down toward the gap between the “gut,” which was a gently sloping mountain near the center of the island, and Tailbone Bay due east. About halfway to the gap was a fairly large Grik encampment, a “bowl of noodles,” hacked out of the jungle. Tailbone Bay was a respectable anchorage, about five miles long and wide, and seemed better protected than the Mouth, but she only saw two ironclad cruisers, “six sticks,” there. Time to turn southwest. To her right, along the base of the gut, were more Grik encampments and, even though they were well hidden, a growing number of what had to be camouflaged industrial facilities betrayed by hazy oil smoke, as opposed to the cook-fire smoke hovering over Grik camps. When Lizard Ass Bay came in view at last, on the southwest coast of the island, she became very busy, describing all she saw—and trying to keep her excitement from throwing her codes out of order. Just as the map predicted, there were three distinct airfields and three large barracks buildings for most of the surviving Japanese sailors. There was also a lot of activity on the bay itself; at least a dozen cruisers were anchored, and a couple more were underway. None looked exactly like those she’d seen before either. More like what Mallory’s 3rd (Army) Pursuiters observed when they rounded on Kurokawa’s fleet that hit TF Alden so hard. She’d heard their top hampers had been reduced and they relied almost entirely on steam power—meaning Kurokawa must’ve improved their engines. She could confirm that now. Along the docks, several large shipyards were busy building or refitting some very big ships. They were too jumbled together to get a good count or determine precisely what they were, but at least two were becoming carriers. And there was the single large carrier she’d expected to see, moored near the center of the bay by one of the little islets they’d dubbed “the Turds,” scattered from there, up around the point to the northwest. Oh, how I wish I had just one bomb! Saansa seethed to herself. Just sitting there, the carrier seemed helpless, and no one had fired a single shot at her.