Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(85)
Silva wiggled his arm and flexed it a couple of times. “I told you. ’Cause you can hurt me more.”
“That didn’t hurt you. What you’ve been doin’ hurts me.”
Silva held up his hands. “Okay, okay. Sorry. Damn. Women. Buncha harpies. Get mushy with ’em an’ try to tell ’em how you feel, an’ they take to beatin’ on you. Did you ever think maybe I been steerin’ clear out o’ self-defense?”
“No.”
Dennis looked at her, furrowing the brow over his good eye. “Is that your new favorite word?” He scratched his chin again, considering. “Tell ya’ what. I’ll come a-callin’ this very evenin’, when I’m done out at the trainin’ ground.”
Pam’s eyes went wide in mock bashfulness. “Why, Chief Silva! Are you askin’ me out?”
“Well, sure. I guess. Not many fine restaurants hereabouts, an’ I don’t think there’s any good pictures showin’. But there’s usually music, chow, an’ a little dancin’ at the airfield, even if they’re always dousin’ the lights whenever somebody thinks they hear a plane.”
Pam seemed to consider it. “Okay, you big dummy. One last chance. But don’t do this to me anymore. Let’s quit hurting each other, okay? An’ if one of us gets it—probably you, with this next idiot stunt—that’s just the way it goes. But we can’t just quit livin’, waiting for it to happen, see?”
“Sure.”
Pam frowned. “One last thing. Lawrence is the sweetest lizard I ever knew, but you better tell him to find something else to do with himself tonight—and don’t come get me with that other lizard wrapped around your neck!” She stepped closer and smiled, looking up at him. “Just you an’ me, babe, an’ I’ll prove that ‘no’ ain’t my favorite word.”
Petey, now fully awake, cocked his head and peered seriously at her with his big eyes. Then he nipped Silva on the ear. “Eat,” he said flatly. His morning feed was long past due.
CHAPTER 12
////// The Plain of Gaughala
Grik Africa
November 14, 1944
“Well?” demanded General Marcus Kim, of no one in particular, his oriental features set in a deeper frown than usual. “Where are they? I must say, it’s rather embarrassing when you attack an enemy you have feared for centuries, and they do not even notice.” Bekiaa said nothing; Kim already knew she believed most of the local Grik had been sent across to Madagascar or summoned to Sofesshk. Many of Kim’s other advisors were afraid to credit that. Inquisitor Choon tended to agree with her, however, and was staring fixedly at the map on the field table, his large, pale blue eyes intent. Courtney Bradford stood beside him, absently fanning himself with the huge sombrero he’d reclaimed since they’d moved north into lower, warmer climes.
He’d seen his woolly sauropod at last—more than one—and his eyes now greedily absorbed a herd of massive, browsing beasts beyond the field fortifications. The standard trench-and-berm perimeter defense the Republic always erected was sprouting a permanent palisade, complete with gun emplacements, as Fort Melhausen became the primary forward supply depot more than a hundred and fifty miles into Grik Africa. The shriek of a train whistle drew Bekiaa’s attention. Much to Courtney’s surprise, the Republic offensive had actually begun months before when their cavalry ensured there were no Grik in the cold mountains north of Fort Taak, and heavily protected engineers had begun laying track through the passes even while Alex-aandra was menaced by Savoie. No one was much surprised by the lack of resistance at the time; both sides of the frontier were usually sparsely populated, particularly in winter. But it was spring now, and the real offensive had begun at last. The result, so far, was . . . anticlimactic.
The same engineers had followed the initially cautious progress of the army, laying temporary track as it went. Here, at Fort Melhausen, they’d continue improving the rail line, assemble fresh troops, munitions, victuals, and all the cornucopia of war, while the bulk of the army moved on. For now, Kim’s corps-size 1st Army remained encamped in its orderly rows of yellowish tents, still conspicuously separated by cohorts and legions. A third of Kim’s entire force, 1st Army consisted of nearly twenty-five thousand men and ’Cats, thousands of horses and suikaas, hundreds of freight wagons, and a hundred Derby guns. Two other corps, though they called them 2nd and 3rd Armies, had taken alternate routes of advance up dirt tracks they’d discovered through the low hills and gullies blemishing the lowland Plain of Gaughala that lapped against a belt of heavy timber their meager maps called the Teetgak Forest.
Bekiaa gazed around her. The senior officers of nine of Kim’s twenty-six infantry legions, as well as the new artillery and cavalry commanders, were gathered under the huge command pavilion, their aides outside beneath the afternoon sun. The scene struck Bekiaa with a number of contrasts. The pavilion was a dark, muddy color, and the uniforms were the usual dull yellow-brown with dark-painted helmets and black leather accoutrements. All would’ve normally provided fair concealment in most terrain if many of the officers hadn’t been wearing their polished cuirasses and helmets. The cavalry was the worst, adding short capes reflecting the colors of their legion’s standard. General Taal-Gaak, the Lemurian cavalry legion commander (whom Bekiaa had to admit looked particularly dashing), had explained that horsemen were easy enough to see already; no sense trying to hide. And perhaps they’d intimidate the enemy. Bekiaa knew that was nonsense, but also a pointless argument compared to others she’d raised.