Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(82)
Matt, Spanky, and Pam continued along the bright, fresh-cut dock, gathering generals Alden and Rolak as they walked. “So,” Pete Alden asked, “what do you think of your repairs?”
Matt pursed his lips. “I’m as happy as I can be, I guess, given where we are, the time we had, and what we had to start with,” he qualified. “The guys on Tara did a helluva job. They stopped most of her leaks, replacing about two thousand rivets—”
“Damn rivets,” Spanky grumbled. “Nothin’ but trouble with ’em from the start. Sorry, Skipper,” he apologized, realizing he’d spoken aloud, interrupting.
“No, you’re right. There’s always been something different about the iron that accelerates corrosion. Particularly when they’re used to refasten the ship’s original plates.” Matt smiled grimly. “And all the beatings haven’t helped.”
“She’ll be in better shape to dish it out now,” Spanky said, trying to be optimistic. “Her guns’re like new, for one thing. The liners are softer than the ones she came with and won’t last as long, but, God willing, they won’t have to. Right now, the rifling’s fresh and crisp. Won’t be near as many fliers,” he assured. “And I’m glad to have the new quadruple-torpedo mounts. They’re a tight fit alongside the aft ’stack, but we’re only two fish shy, per side, of the six we used to have. And Bernie says the new fish’re better too. Swears the Mark Sixes are a big improvement over the Fours. They’ve got their own little turbines and can run thirty knots. Longer range too, though Bernie thinks six thousand yards is more realistic than the ten thousand Baalkpan Nav-Ord claims.”
“Still better than the maybe two thousand we could count on from the Mark Fours,” Matt said, thinking more about how the improved torpedoes might stack up against the League’s than against anything the Grik—or Kurokawa—had. Kurokawa’s new aerial torpedoes didn’t explode at the end of their runs, and they’d found one floating near where Baalkpan Bay went down. They were good fish, if small, but their size and resultant fuel capacity probably limited their range to about a thousand yards. That didn’t mean Kurokawa didn’t have bigger, better fish—he’d certainly started with better torpedo technology. They’d probably find out soon enough. But the League definitely had big, heavy, shipborne torps. They’d seen the launchers on Leopardo. The question was, How good were they? The scuttlebutt before their old war was that the Japanese had practically copied the Italian torpedoes. That could be very bad indeed. He shook his head. He couldn’t worry about that now.
“Yeah,” Spanky agreed. “We don’t have as many as I’d like, though. Tara brought some, enough to fill all the tubes of everything we’ve got that can use ’em, plus a few for the PB-5s, I hope. About a dozen spares. The rest went down on one of the ammo ships. We’ll get more,” he encouraged. “Mr.—Chairman Letts’ll make sure of that.”
Matt nodded, certain Alan Letts would do all he could, but he couldn’t perform miracles. It would take time to replace all the torpedoes—and everything else TF Alden lost. He nodded forward, indicating they’d reached the point where Chack, Risa, Lawrence, and Silva were waiting. Silva, with Petey drooping, asleep, over his shoulder like a fuzzy rag, looked uncomfortable at the sight of Pam, but as they often did, his lips were moving as he sang some—usually inappropriate—little song to himself. The fast transports were tying up, and their anxious, seasick, long-confined “cargoes” were lining their rails, practically bursting to get ashore.
“Look at all them weird-lookin’ critters!” Silva said, pointing at the nearest ship, its gangway sliding across to the dock. “Look, Larry! Now you ain’t the only lizard in the Army.” He narrowed his brows. “Which you’re in the Navy, though, so I guess . . .”
“Oh, shut up, you!” Pam snapped. “Not even a ‘hello’ or a ‘howya been’? What a jerk!”
“Hiya, doll,” Dennis said evenly, looking directly at her for the first time. “What call’ve you got to get all rared up at me?”
“Stow it,” Matt said. “You can tear each other’s heads off later. Right now we’ve got company.” He nodded at a large Grik-like form, obviously Major I’joorka, striding down the ramp. The newly promoted Captain Abel Cook, looking much older than his seventeen years, and a short, wiry, dark-haired, dark-skinned man with file-sharpened teeth followed behind him. Cook was familiar to them all, despite his changes, but Matt had never met the Khonashi war captain turned major in the Union Army before. He was bigger than Lawrence, but, like the rest of his party, dressed in the same tie-dyed smock and camo-painted leather armor that was standard issue for all Allied ground forces. The armor wasn’t universally worn by foot soldiers anymore because it interfered with properly shouldering a rifle. Some infantry kept it, with the right shoulder segments removed, because the tough rhino-pig hide came in very handy when things got close. Most officers, cavalry, and artillery still used it.
The feathery fur on I’joorka’s face, arms, and legs was dark rust streaked almost black, more similar to the color of Keje-Fris-Ar’s pelt than Lawrence’s orange-and-brown tiger stripes. And his head was bigger, the teeth in his jaws more intimidating. At the bottom of the gangway, he straightened to his full height, his feathery tail brushing the dock, and saluted with his companions.