Blood In the Water (51 page)

*

USS
Walker
had taken on fuel and supplies from
Santy Cat
and was preparing to steam away from Grik City the following dawn. There weren't many fires ashore, after the nightly raid. There wasn't much left that would burn, and the Grik firebombs usually burned themselves out fairly quickly. Matt was seated in his chair on the bridge, sipping Juan's vile “coffee” with a tired frown on his face. He hadn't slept at all, imagining all sorts of scenarios—most having to do with his wife. He simply couldn't help focusing on that.

“Skipper!” came a cry from aft. “Skipper!” It was Ed Palmer's voice, accompanied by the rumble of his feet on the stairs behind him. He sounded . . . excited, sort of, not like he carried news he dreaded to deliver.

“Yes, Mr. Palmer?” Matt answered as Ed rushed to his side.

“Cap-i-taan!” called Minnie, the bridge talker, pointing at
Santa Catalina
beyond the port bridgewing. Her Morse lamp was flashing in the brightening dawn.

“Yes, sir.” Ed nodded, holding up a scrap of rough Baalkpan paper. “That's what
this
says, I mean. . . .”

“Well, what is it?” Matt demanded irritably. Usually, Ed's boyishness was rather charming, but there were times when the communications officer could try Matt's patience, particularly after the night he'd had.

“There's a Grik zeppelin creeping over the wall of trees to the south, Skipper. The morning air patrol spotted it and called it in.”

“So?” Matt asked. There were often damaged stragglers from the night's raids, wandering around in the vicinity of the city. Part of the morning patrol's duty was to make sure they wouldn't crash on or near any troop concentrations or defensive positions and then shoot them down.

“Sir . . . they called it in because
this
zep's goofy markings are blotched over and it has . . . ‘DD-163' painted on its side!”

“What?” Matt jumped up and bolted for the starboard bridgewing, reaching for his binoculars. Sure enough, a battered-looking enemy dirigible had just cleared the high wall to the south just beyond the Celestial Palace and was headed directly for the old Grik airship field that now served as one of the Allied airstrips. And there, very crudely daubed on the thing, was his own ship's number.

“Secure all stations from getting underway,” he snapped. “Stand by the whaleboat!”

“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan!” answered the talker.

“Ah, sir, there's something else that came in at the same time.”

Matt shook his head and snatched the paper away from Ed. He scanned the young man's scrawl for a moment, and his eyebrows rose in surprise while his lips compressed in rage at the same time.

“What should I reply?” Ed asked, almost plaintively.

“Tell them to go ahead,” Matt said, his voice sharp but even. “Have Commander McFarlane accompany me in the whaleboat . . . along with Lieutenant Cross. And inform General Maraan to have plenty of security meet us at the airstrip.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

*

The zeppelin had already—basically—crashed by the time they arrived at the airfield. It wasn't burning, but it had landed hard and the rigid envelope had collapsed down on the twin gondolas underneath. What gas remained—there couldn't have been much, judging by the way it barely cleared the wall of trees—must've immediately gushed out and the thing then rolled onto its side. A large number of Chack and Risa's Raiders had gathered around it, and some were clumped together near the forward gondola as Matt, Spanky, and Pam Cross, joined as they arrived by Safir Maraan, walked briskly out to join them.

“Hey! Hiya, doll!” roared a big man bursting from the crowd, still holding Risa-Sab-At close to his side with one arm. Blood was streaming down his face from a gash on his forehead, matting the bushy blond beard on his cheek. His clothes were . . . destroyed by all he'd been through, and he looked like hell, but it was unmistakably Dennis Silva.
Pam hesitated just an instant before breaking into a run and launching herself at him.

“Whoa, now! I knocked my noodle around when we lit, an' I'm kinda woozy! Both of you're liable to tump me over an' smush somebody!” Risa stepped back, grinning hugely, and for a moment Pam Cross had her man all to herself.

“I
will
be goddamned,” Spanky grunted. “I figured we were rid of him once and for all this time, and here he comes, floatin' back to life in a giant, flyin' turd.”

Dennis heard him and snapped to attention, not quite dropping Pam. He saluted. “Chief Gunner's Mate Silva, here ta' ree-port, Cap'n Reddy! Commander Spanky!” He grinned. Both men returned the salute, then Matt just spread his arms, encompassing the wrecked zeppelin. “I guess this'll be a good one. And I see you've brought some . . . friends along,” he added, catching his first glimpse of Silva's “aircrew” as they emerged from the group gathered around them and approached. They were obviously Lemurians of some kind, but they were certainly different in a number of ways. Or was it just that they looked slightly less . . . cultivated? The Maroons looked different from Imperials even though they had the same origin, Matt reminded himself. He realized one of the new 'Cats was a female youngling, and she was dragging Silva's monstrous rifle by the barrel. “Are they the same ones Mr. Hardee reported?” he asked. “And where are the rest of our people? How are they?”

“Nat's back with the Seven boat? Good,” Silva said with a nod of relief. “I been worried about that kid. No, these ‘Shee-Ree' 'Cats are way different from the ones we met on the river. They're swell fellas.” He raised his voice in warning so others could hear. “But even if they
look
a lot like regular 'Cats, an' they're rare fightin' fiends, don't leave nothin' layin' around they're liable to take a fancy to. They'll piss on it, sure.”

Matt couldn't wait to hear what that was about. “And our people?” he pressed.

“Fine. Just fine . . . mostly. Can't speak for Corp'ral Miles. He ee-lected to stay behind an' help in the fightin' there.” Silva glanced meaningfully at Spanky. “Honest,” he added, then looked back at Matt. “Ever'body else'll be along d'rectly, steamin' up the coast with more o' the new friends we made.” He gestured behind him and shrugged. “Long story,” he said, then puffed out his chest. “And it
is
a good 'un. Hell, I guess I'm
like some kinda damn
magnet
for gatherin' up folks that want to fight the lizards! But back to Chackie an' Mr. Bradford: you might wanna send a ship 'er two down to meet 'em. Their vessels ain't exactly what I'd call fit for blue water in a rough sea.” He waved back at the wreck. “An' besides, like I said, there's been some fightin' and likely to be more. The Griks is shuttlin' troops across—real troops,” he added significantly, “with their very own soljer suits an' decent muskets. Only they mean to creep up from the south by land this time.” He grinned again. “We might'a put a little kink in that.”

“Shuttling?” Matt asked.

“Yes, sir. Barges behind paddle steamers, across the strait.”

“Mr. Meek and Mr. Leedom saw no large numbers of tugs up the Zambezi,” Matt said to Spanky.

“No, sir.”

“But those sheds might cover barges after all, like you suggested. Still, they
must
be bringing troops across from farther south, which further confirms why Bekiaa reports so few of them in front of Republic forces.”

Silva scratched his head. “Sirs? What the hell's been goin' on? Risa tried to tell me, an' I caught a little gibberish about us getting' licked at sea, but we're fixin' to
attack
the mainland? An' Lady Sandra's been swiped again?”

For several minutes, as best they could, they all caught each other up. The Shee-ree stood and watched for a while but let their attention wander to the dispersed planes, and particularly to the well-armed, uniformed people gathered around who looked so much like them and seemed so friendly.

“So that's it,” Matt finished simply, his face grim.

Silva appeared deep in thought, which was very unusual for him. No one bought that he was as big an idiot as he pretended to be anymore, but he rarely spent much time thinking before he spoke—or acted. “I'm with you, Skipper,” he said at last. “After what we seen, I'd bet the lizards have big plans. I doubt they will—it was a pretty big operation—but even if they put the brakes on their stunt down south after word o' what we did seeps back, their main attack had to be timed to when them troops could'a marched this far north. That'll take a spell through them jungles an' across them rivers.” His growing, gap-toothed grin widened.
“'Specially with all the folks livin' down there stirred up against 'em! We send a few crates o' rifles down—even muskets . . . add a couple comp'nys o' raiders, an' we can really give 'em hell an' slow 'em right down to a crawl.” He nodded. “Right now strikes me fairly well as the very best time to jump right down their throats while they
think
they're puttin' the sneak on us.”

“There's more,” Matt began, but cocked his ear to the sound of airplane engines.

Safir heard it as well. “Major Risa, please do reconstitute your security detail,” she said formally, but then favored Silva with a radiant smile. “And Colonel Chack
is
truly well?” she asked.

“Fine as frog hair,” Dennis assured. “We set down once, along shore, an' he scraped up the paint to put
Walker
's number on the gasbag from one o' the tugs we swiped. Even took hold o' Petey for me. You'd think that stupid little tree-hoppin' toad'd be used to heights, but he don't much like 'em at all.” He heard the plane now too, through his gun-damaged hearing, and they joined the others as they walked past the wrecked airship to stand beside the line of troops Risa had deployed. They could see it now: a low-wing trimotor, sweeping down around the Cowflop to approach the field. Its dingy camouflage scheme of brown and tan was badly weathered, and the colors were beginning to blend together. The markings were still fairly clear, however, recognizable as something similar to the device on the huge submarine they sank, embraced by a pair of fasces.

“Who the hell's that?” Silva asked in a loud whisper.

“Our newest enemy,” Matt ground out.

The plane landed in a cloud of dust and taxied close before the pilot cut the engines. Two of them coughed white smoke in an unhealthy manner. The big plane had apparently been in the weather and been denied proper maintenance for some time. Several minutes later, a hatch opened in the side of the fuselage and two men stepped out. One was impeccably dressed in tall boots and a round-topped hat, his blue uniform catching some of the dust as it settled. His expression was inscrutable behind the thin mustache he wore. The other man wore dark khakis and an overseas cap, and looked extremely uncomfortable. The first man seemed to be waiting for them to approach him, but when no one moved, he actually
sighed and stepped forward. A few yards away from Matt, he and his companion stopped and saluted.

“I am Capitaine de Fregate Victor Gravois, emissary of the Benevolent League of Tripoli! This, my pilot, is Oberleutnant Walbert Fiedler. We were the only persons aboard the plane,” he added when a squad of Risa's Raiders charged through the door of the aircraft behind him, carbines at the ready. “I do hope one among you might be Captain Matthew Reddy of the United States Navy?”

“A goddamn real
Heinie
Nazi is with the French one!” Spanky hissed sharply.

“I'm Reddy,” Matt said, his tone neutral. He didn't salute, and the two men lowered their hands.

“It is a distinct honor to meet you, Captain Reddy,” Gravois said earnestly. “I have heard so much about you, from your enemies . . . and your friends. Thank you for allowing us to land and communicate directly with you at long last.” He paused, and his eyes flicked about. Something about the way they moved reminded Matt of a snake's tongue. “Based on your reputed achievements against your enemies, and a physical description by a particular friend, shall we say, I was given to expect a man of your general height and countenance, but”—he frowned at the scene around them, the crashed dirigible and ubiquitous evidence of the nightly bombardments—“not necessarily the . . . disaster area, few little planes, and the paltry, exhausted, ‘fleet' of ships we saw from the air that you seem to command.” He held up a hand in the face of Matt's mounting rage. “Please! Absolutely no offense was meant! Quite the contrary. That you have accomplished so much with so little is utterly remarkable. My compliments.”

Matt's rage was undiminished, but it had nothing to do with what Gravois said about his command. “I don't give a
shit
about your compliments, you slippery bastard,” he seethed. “What has your damned League done with the prisoners
Savoie
took after it sank a
hospital ship
?”

Gravois was slightly taken aback, but assumed what looked like a genuinely pained expression. “That, my dear Captain Reddy, is exactly why I am here: to reassure you of the good intent and continuing, scrupulous neutrality of my government in regard to the ongoing . . . martial disputes affecting this corner of the globe we all inhabit.”

“Neu-traal-ity!” Safir Maraan practically gasped.

Gravois looked down at her appraisingly. “Indeed,” he said. “A neutrality that has been abused by various of the belligerents in this dreadful conflict”—he looked back at Matt—“but most recently and egregiously by one in particular. I therefore considered it my duty to bring you word—and warning—that
Savoie
not only most assuredly does
not
represent the League, but is—and was during the terrible incident you described—in the hands of a demented maniac I understand you know of, by the name of Hisashi Kurokawa! He seized her from her rightful, peaceful crew, and it was he who ordered the destruction of your hospital ship and imprisoned your wife and friends. They were quite safe when I fled to bring you this dreadful news,” he quickly assured, “but I could not secure their release, even with promises of forgiveness for the theft of our ship—and the atrocity she participated in, in our name.” He paused and gestured modestly at himself. “I can only hope that my helpless presence here, entirely at your mercy, will convince you of my sincerity.”