Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(58)
“Of course,” Chack agreed, blinking amusement. “I thought pursuit pilots had to remain fit, to overcome the stress of their aarial acro-baatics?”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been more of an organizer than a pursuiter, since I got here,” Ben replied, evading the invitation. Chack’s Brigade trained very hard. He looked at Matt. “I suspect—hope—my pen pushing is over.”
Matt was nodding. “You did damn good work, Colonel,” he said. “And I’m very glad to see you. The initiative you took after Kurokawa tripped his mousetrap north of here—hunting him down and getting in some licks of our own—is one reason we’re in any shape to do anything but hunker down and wait for what comes next. The main reason, though, is how you kept your head and started organizing the mare’s nest that landed here after the battle, before generals Alden and Rolak arrived.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ben said seriously. “Honestly, though, that was as much out of fear as anything. I didn’t know if Alden or Rolak were even alive, and was scared to death I was it.” He shrugged. “And somebody had to take charge. If Kurokawa came on with troopships, we were finished.” He shook his head. “I didn’t really think he would, but he could have. I started by getting the airfield sorted out. There were gas and bombs on Tarakaan Island, but we didn’t have a single bullet or drop of fuel at the new strip.” He scratched his nose. “And there were a lot of shell-shocked people just standing around, doing nothing. I figured put ’em to work. I got the construction battalion busy improving the strip, shifting fuel and ammo and preparing for a bunch of people and planes. But then we learned Andamaan was coming in—that all the surviving troopships were coming here.” He held out his hands. “So I got everybody, even Tara’s crew and engineers, laying out encampments and setting up field kitchens—the works. I didn’t really know what I was doing on such a scale, but I had to try.”
“You did well. Better than well.” Matt smiled. “Pete’s writing you an IOU for another medal—once we get around to making some.” Everyone laughed. The subject of medals had been a running joke for years. No one wanted to divert even the relatively miniscule amount of labor and materials that making them would require from the war effort. But even Lemurians grasped how being recognized for martial accomplishments had an inspiring effect, and Adar once proposed that colorful ribbons be awarded for various acts. A census of the troops revealed that though they’d appreciate them, nobody would wear them and they’d just get lost. Most everyone liked the system that evolved: a commendation in front of one’s mates, documentation of the deed in one’s records, and the promise of a shiny medal one could wear—or be remembered by—after the war.
“Now,” Matt said, smile fading, “instead of waiting the couple hours for us to anchor, I assume you came out—risking your neck in a little boat on water with fish in it that eat ships—to tell me what the hell a Macchi-Messerschmitt is? I was looking at Fiedler’s description.” He held up the message form. “He was very helpful,” he added aside to Courtney. “But you know better what the specs mean for us.”
“Yes, sir,” Ben said, his grin sliding away as well. He lowered his voice so only Matt could hear. “And I scanned the letter he left you,” he confessed, “as soon as the Nancy pilot handed it over. General Maraan had already opened it, so I thought, What the hell?”
“That’s fine, Colonel,” Matt whispered back, “but I better have a look at it before we pass it around. If nothing else, we don’t want the enemy to know we have it.”
“Sure, Skipper,” Ben said louder, handing over a leather satchel. Matt glanced inside, seeing a thick sheaf of rough Lemurian paper covered with handwriting. “It’s in the section where he sketched out the history of the League—and even gave some background on the Confederation . . .”
“Confédértion états Souverains,” Courtney supplied helpfully.
“Yeah, that,” Ben agreed. “The outfit that became the League of Tripoli here. He obviously knew the League came from a different . . .” He shrugged, looking helpless.
“Progression of history,” Bradford suggested.
“Ah yeah,” Ben agreed, blinking at the Australian. They’d surmised that, and Gravois confirmed it, blithely explaining that the League was initially composed of a large Confederation task force and convoy headed for Italian Libya to conquer British Egypt in 1939. He’d refused to describe the composition of the task force, but they’d gleaned that even in that other world, the British Navy remained imposing, so the Confederation task force would’ve necessarily been robust. Matt wondered how the attack went after the convoy got . . . sucked here. He wrinkled his nose, disliking that description. Maybe they called it off? But that’s obviously why the League’s so well equipped.
“Anyway, Fiedler knew his world was similar to but different from ours, and tried to catch us up on how stuff is different. There’s a lot in there about that,” he said, nodding at the satchel, “and he must’ve been working on it quite a while before he blabbed.” He pursed his lips. “I only focused on what he said about warplanes the triumvirate may send to Kurokawa, though.” He frowned. “It isn’t good.”