Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(84)

“Who would you need for aircrew?” Matt asked. Silva waved his hand. “A couple o’ the same ones as before, if they’ll volunteer.” He shrugged. “Me an’ them Shee-Ree’re the only ones checked out in Grik zeps, anyway. As for the rest, I guess I can make do with Larry an’ maybe eight or ten of I’joorka’s guys.” He looked thoughtful. “I wonder if he’s got ’ol Pokey with him.”

“Okay,” Matt agreed. “I’ll have Mr. Palmer put it all together and send the request to General Maraan. We’ll get it in motion.” He saw Pam practically boiling, but holding her tongue. “Come on, Pete,” he said. “Let’s leave Chief Silva and Walker’s esteemed surgeon to . . . talk things through.”

Dennis sighed heavily when Matt and Pete were gone. “Go give Risa a hand, will ya, Larry?” he asked his friend, then finally turned to Pam. “Okay, doll. Let’s have it out.”

Instead of launching into the expected tirade, Pam suddenly burst into tears.

Silva’s eye went wide with alarm. “No! No, damn it! You can’t do that! What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“You are,” Pam confessed miserably.

Dennis was at a loss. “Well, sure. I know that. An’ I warned you too. I’m no good.”

Pam shook her head violently, tears pattering on the dock. “Oh, don’t start that again. We both know different. But I thought we understood each other. I wouldn’t push you—an’ I haven’t—but you’d stop pushing me away.”

“There ain’t no understandin’ you, doll, an’ I been a mite busy.”

“Not too busy for Risa,” she said caustically, and Silva’s expression hardened. There’d always been rumors about Silva and Chack’s sister, which neither had done much to squash. They’d been soul mates when it came to their unconventional personalities, and out of sheer amusement had never confirmed or denied that their great, obvious friendship, might’ve involved “experimentation” from time to time. Not even to Pam. But Pam was like a sister to Risa and had even participated in the joke to the extent of fueling further prurient speculation. But Risa finally tired of the game as the war made her more serious, and, besides, everyone—except maybe Silva—knew that Silva belonged to Pam.

“Risa’s my pal,” Dennis stated simply, definitively. “I knew her before you an’ me ever met, when you were off on Mahan. An’ we been workin’ together, gettin’ ready for this next push. Don’t lay that crap on me.”

“And I’m not your pal? At least? I was worried sick about you while you were running all over Madagascar. Didn’t know if you were alive or dead for weeks. Then you came back—an’ that was great—until I shipped out for here.” She shook her head. “Okay, that’s the breaks. But then you show up on Santy Cat an’ I think my guy is here—only he isn’t, far as I’m concerned.”

Dennis scratched the whiskers on his chin, thinking. “Look, doll,” he finally said, his tone softer. “I am yer guy, always will be, though God knows why you want it that way. I even practically threw you at Colonel Mallory once, remember? He’s here. You should’a looked him up.”

“No.”

“Okay,” Dennis agreed, “but here’s the deal, same as before. I am what I am, an’ the war is what I do. More important, the Skipper needs me.” He grimaced. “Maybe more than ever. That Jap havin’ Lady Sandra an’ the rest is tearin’ his guts out, but does he let it show? Can he? Hell no. I don’t know how he does it.” He looked directly in Pam’s eyes. “If they had you, I’d say the hell with everything an’ do what I had to to get you back. No waitin’, no plannin’—an’ we’d prob’ly lose the damn war. He feels the same, wants the same, but he’s stronger than me, see?” He laughed bitterly. “I’m so weak, I do my best to push you away—even outa my mind, so if somethin’ happened to you it wouldn’t hurt me like he’s hurtin’ now; wouldn’t run me crazy, just killin’ an’ killin’ till they take me down. You know that’s what he wants. Me an’ him ain’t all that different, down deep. But his top layer’s thicker, stronger, smarter than mine, an’ it’s spread a lot wider too. When it comes down to it, he just . . . gives a damn about more than I do. He’s carryin’ whole countries on his shoulders, thousands o’ troops an’ sailors, maybe a couple hundred ships, all told.” He snorted and thumped Petey on the head with his thumb. “All I have on mine is this dumb-ass little lizard, the double handful o’ folks I’ve learned to care about, an’ my two simple little missions in life: kill anybody who threatens them folks—an’ not let the Skipper down.”

Pam blinked. Then, as hard as she could, she punched him in the center of his left bicep with her sharp knuckles.

“Ow! Goddamn!” Silva snapped.

“Goddamn!” Petey shrieked, still groggy from the blow on his head that woke him.

“That’s for bein’ a jerk,” Pam told him. Then, without warning, as soon as he lowered his right hand from briefly massaging the spot, she punched it again.

“Ow!”

“An’ that’s for bein’ stupider than your pet lizard. I guess Chack an’ Risa, Lawrence an’ Tabby—way more than a double handful—are people you care about too, aren’t they? You don’t avoid them. Why do you have to treat me different?”