“Cease firing!” Matt repeated.
“Which I already did, didn’t I?” Earl snapped back, his tone surly. Matt just stared at him and then started to laugh.
“I ser’ you, Lord!” Matt heard a breathless, rasping call, and saw Hij Geerki—protectively surrounded by six Lemurian Marines to keep him from being murdered, no doubt—being ushered into his presence.
“You certainly do, Hij Geerki. You certainly do,” Matt said seriously. Geerki looked down, almost modestly, Matt thought.
“I too old to… join that killing,” Geerki said. “’Ut I do all I can,” he added piously.
Matt was struck by how similar Geerki’s intent had been to his own not long ago. “You did swell. Escort this… person to General Maraan’s main HQ in the Cowflop. Make sure he’s comfortable and well fed,” he told the Marines. “He’s going to be busy, and he’ll need some rest.”
“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan Reddy!”
“Skipper,” Bernie said, touching Matt’s sleeve. Matt looked at him and saw him nod down the slope behind where corps-’Cats feverishly tended the many wounded that had been dragged away from the fight. A pair was kneeling over a man in mud and blood-spattered Navy whites. Matt didn’t even look behind him. The battle here was over as soon as the Grik turned away. Many more would die, chasing them down, and he’d tried to tell Jindal to stop the pursuit at the jungle, but he’d bolted to join the charge before he could. Risa will stop them, he thought. She knows. Any Grik that escape us today will belong to the jungle, he added grimly to himself. A few might make it to one of the abandoned Grik cities down the west coast, but they’d be no threat. Unlike the “civvies,” they probably would murder one another to the last. “Round up Walker’s people,” he told Bernie. “Make a count, and find some cav-’Cats and meanies. I want to get down to Safir as quick as we can if she needs us there. There’s got to be more ammo someplace. Hopefully, not too many of our people joined the charge,” he added, then stepped down the slope.
Simon Herring was looking up at him as he approached, his eyes wide and surprisingly clear, considering how much seep the corps-’Cats had probably given him for the pain. But his face was terribly pale, and there was far too much blood soaking the bandages on his torso past his unbuttoned tunic.
“It was a spear,” Herring explained almost apologetically. “Would you believe it? A spear. How could I let myself be killed by a spear in 1944!” He snorted and tried to sit up, but the corps-’Cats held him down. He relaxed but looked back at Matt. “Another famous victory, Captain Reddy. I salute you.” Matt was surprised that there was no sarcasm in his tone, and he sat in the mud beside the man, grunting a little from his wounded leg and aching joints and muscles. He stabbed his sword into the ground and just stared past the Cowflop and the jumbled battle beyond, out to sea. The wind was milder in the lee of the great wall and though the visibility was better now, the storm on the water seemed even stronger. That was when he knew he wouldn’t be riding to save Safir Maraan next; she wouldn’t need him.
Past the pounding, surf-racked wreckage of the mighty Grik fleet, there were now two shadowy gray shapes in the distance. One was his beloved Walker, of course, and he saw occasional deliberate, unheard flashes from her guns. Steaming ahead of her, however, the odd “dazzle” paint job further obscuring the lines of her much larger form, was the converted freighter turned armored cruiser, USS Santa Catalina (CAP-1). She’d clearly outpaced her consorts to arrive so soon. And unlike Walker, she had plenty of ammunition and was pounding the Grik to smithereens with her more numerous, more powerful weapons. No, Matt thought tiredly. I won’t be going anywhere. He looked forward to seeing Russ Chappelle, Mikey Monk, Cathy McCoy, and all his other friends on the doughty old ship, but right then he belonged where he was, with the people who’d held the back door to this crappy place—and the strange, dying man beside him.
“Santy Cat’s here,” he told Herring.
“Leave us!” Herring ordered the corps-’Cats, who looked at Matt. He nodded, and they moved to another patient. “I’ve been watching her,” Herring told Matt. “I saw her arrive some time ago.” He closed his eyes and took several careful breaths. “A famous victory,” he finally repeated, “and I don’t know why I’m surprised anymore. You do seem to have a curious aptitude for creating them, regardless.”
“I didn’t create anything but a mess,” Matt said.
“Untrue. We were all ‘suckered,’ but as usual, you ensured that the enemy did not benefit. That is perhaps your greatest talent. You are always making bricks without straw, and yet they somehow endure.” He coughed, and a blob of mucous and blood came to his lips and slid down his cheek. “So much for that ‘long talk’ I requested,” he murmured, “so I will just tell you what I have to say and let you decide what to do with the information. I’d hoped to counsel you, but there won’t be time for that.” He blinked. “Remember the organic weapon that Adar authorized and Mr. Sandison helped create?” Matt looked at Bernie, still standing beside them, and saw his confusion.
Bernie had indeed helped make a weapon that Courtney Bradford considered worse, and far more insidious than gas. It was made from the collected seed-thorns of a kudzu-like plant they’d discovered on Yap Island. The terrible thing about this plant was that it grew in the living tissue of whatever creature was pierced by the thorn, very quickly consuming it and sprouting from the body to produce more thorns. In addition to the dreadful nature of the plant as a weapon—spreading or dropping the tiny seed-thorns where they might fall on enemies, or be stepped on or ingested, could kill uncountable numbers of them in the most horrendous way—Bradford feared such a deployment would spread the plant uncontrollably, and might ultimately render entire continents uninhabitable.
“Mr. Sandison didn’t know,” Herring assured him, “but the weapon, the ‘kudzu bomb,’ as I believe he referred to it, is here.”
“What?” Bernie gasped. “How?”
“I brought it,” Herring simply said. “And it’s perhaps not precisely here—I don’t really know anymore. But it was aboard Salissa, packed in several barrels labeled as a dietary supplement for captured Grik. A kind of fish hash, I believe.” He chuckled and more blood came up. “Grik food,” he managed. “An amusing irony I indulged in.” He looked at Matt, seeming to have trouble focusing now. “It may have been moved. In fact, I suspect it has.”
“If Bernie didn’t know, who else does? Keje? Adar?”
“Neither, at first, though I told Adar after the battle to take this place. He said he’d move it to the Celestial Palace, the uh, ‘Cowflop,’ but I don’t know if he ever did. He may have told Keje himself, and left it aboard Salissa. Other than Adar, I told only two others. One is Corporal Ian Miles, who accompanied Mr. Bradford, Chack, and that interesting Mr. Silva on their expedition south.” He looked troubled. “I no longer trust Corporal Miles for various reasons; nor should you. He is a capable Marine and should pose no threat to his companions on their mission, but his only real loyalty is to himself.”
“Who else, Herring?” Matt demanded.
Herring’s eyes flickered. “I didn’t use it,” he defended. “I only brought it because I didn’t think you could win, and saving our people here has become as much my cause as yours. But you amaze me again, and along with my most sincere esteem, I shall leave you with this final gift, this weapon, to use or not as you see fit.” Herring closed his eyes.
“Who else!” Matt insisted.
“The perfect person, really,” Herring mumbled, then smiled vaguely. “I had a desk in the War Department, you know. It was a small, ugly, metal thing with a green linoleum top. The Navy dearly loves green linoleum! I actually begged to be sent to China before the war, just in time to flee to the Philippines and be captured by the Japanese. Imagine that! Oh, how I missed that horrid little desk.” He opened his eyes and grasped Matt’s arm. “And then, in spite of everything, you turned me into a destroyerman. I thank you, Captain Reddy.” His last words came as a whisper, a
nd Matt gently shook him.
“You’ve become a good destroyerman, Simon, but tell me the name!” he whispered back, expecting nothing and not surprised when Herring’s head rolled to the side and he could say no more.
“Damn,” Matt murmured.
“Yes, sir,” Bernie said, then looked at him. “I’m sorry, Skipper, for the kudzu stuff.”
“Not your fault. I said so then. You were just doing what you were told.”
“What if it’s not on Big Sal anymore?”
“Then we find it.”
“How? It’s not like we can whistle up Adar or Miles and ask them. Mr. Garrett and that Choon guy are sure the League is reading our mail, and our codes may not matter. I don’t think we should be sending any messages asking where our ultimate weapon might be.”
Matt smiled in spite of himself. “No.”
“So what do we do?”
Matt waved around. “After all this is sorted out, we’ll look for Herring’s ‘fish mash,’ in Big Sal and the Cowflop. Chances are, we’ll find it without the other name.”
“What then?”
Matt sighed. “I honestly don’t know, Bernie. I used to think I did, but after today, after everything, I can’t tell you right now whether I’ll burn it—or use it. Either way, this is between you and me, clear?”
“Of course, Skipper.” Bernie frowned. “You and me—and whoever else already knows.”
“Yeah.”
Bernie finally grunted and sat beside him, and Matt stared back at the sea, another round of driving rain from the mounting storm soaking him to the bone. Together they waited with Simon Herring’s corpse while that terrible day, and the Second Battle of Grik City, slowly came to an end. Liberty City was a fine name, and an even better idea, he thought, but the old name is too set in the minds of those who fought here, and on the graves of those who’ll never leave. Probably just as well. Change the name of the place, and eventually the names of the battles will change as well—and that’d change the whole meaning of what we fought for here… or would it? He was suddenly unsure of that after all, but “Grik City” would stick, regardless.
“At least Amerika and… well, everybody on her, was out of here before the fight,” Bernie said at last, mirroring Matt’s own, earlier thoughts, thoughts he now returned to.
“You can say that again,” he agreed, “but I won’t be happy until I hear she’s dropped anchor in Baalkpan Bay.”
CHAPTER 37
////// PT-7
Mangoro River
“Anything for us yet?” Dennis Silva grumped at the comm-’Cat in the Seven boat’s cramped wireless office. He completely filled the small hatchway and unconsciously shifted his weight to compensate for the boat’s still somewhat energetic bucking. PT-7 had crept as far as it could up the sluggish, narrow red waters of what Bradford called the “Mangoro” River about six hundred miles south of Grik City a couple of days before. There it moored offshore, using the mighty carcass of a fallen Galla tree as a dock of sorts to ride out what threatened to become a full-blown strakka. It hadn’t turned as bad as that, as far as Silva could tell, at least not here. But it sounded like Grik City had been harder hit, on top of the Grik attack. It had been a “bit brisk,” however, and the torpid river had become a boisterous torrent. Silva had wanted to go ashore, of course, even during the worst of it, but Courtney and Chack vetoed the scheme. They’d seen firsthand how dangerous the Mada-gaas-gar interior could be and didn’t want anyone, even Silva, tromping about in a storm ashore. That left them largely battened down together in the small MTB, riding it out like sardines in a can. The group comprised Chack, Bradford, Lawrence, Corporal Ian Miles, an Imperial Marine sergeant named McGinnis, Ensign Nathaniel Hardee, his Seven boat’s six-’Cat crew—and Dennis Silva. Silva had been excruciatingly bored and had begun contemplating numerous antics to relieve the tedium by the time the blow finally eased, and Bradford assured him they’d all soon be on the loose. But in the meantime, Silva pestered the comm-’Cat almost hourly for news from the north.
“Still nuttin’ for us, spaacsiffically,” the ’Cat groaned. “I send, but I guess we ain’t gettin’ through. Them mountains Mr. Braadf-furd says is between us, I bet, gets in the way. I still pickin’ up stuff, now an’ then. Some clear, some not.” He paused. “Amer-i-kaa get to Diego okay. That come through good early this mornin’. Still dark, here. Better, ah, ‘aat-mos-pherics,’ I guess. She gonna lay over for some few repairs before steamin’ on to Baalkpan. Mr. Braad-furd got some traffic from A-mer-i-kaa then too, but run me out to take it, an’ I don’t know what it was about,” the ’Cat said, then added thoughtfully, “Chairmaan Adar prob’ly askin’ him what bugs an’ such we seen so far, I bet.”
“Swell,” Silva snapped, thumping Petey on the head. The little tree-glider was perched on his shoulder, a small, clawed finger picking in his ear while Petey stared inside in apparent amazement. Petey blinked. “Goddamn!” he shrieked, shaking his head.
“‘Goddamn’ is right, you little shit. Did you hear that? You’d be cavortin’ on shore with plenty to eat, an’ all them Diego ’Cats—them ‘Lalaantis’—fawnin’ over you an’ stuffin’ fish down your miserable gullet if you’d’a just gone back to Miss Sandra like you should’a.” Silva still wasn’t sure why the Skipper’s dame hadn’t just taken the little creep back. She’d seen him often enough.
“Eat?”
“No, damn you, an’ keep your fingers outa my ear!” He looked back at the ’Cat. “How ’bout Walker? She get in okay?” The last they’d heard, Walker had gone to search the strait for survivors of Jarrik’s task force. She found two ships. One was Jarrik’s own Tassat, dismasted, her boilers wrecked, and wallowing dangerously close to one of the Comoros Islands. The other was one of the fast transports in similar shape a little farther north. No other member of the gallant little task force had been seen or heard from. Walker, still using a hand tiller while her steering gear was repaired, and then Santa Catalina, had been attempting to tow both ships back to Grik City.
“They musta made it okay,” the ’Cat said. “I get reported that the tows got in, when they send the caas-ulty lists.”
“Hmm. Damn it, we should’a been there. Feel like we was playin’ hooky from the fight, on this here pleasure cruise.” He held up a hand. “Not that I’m against playin’ hooky in general, but I surely hate to miss a fight.”
Despite his first irritated inclination, the ’Cat wisely didn’t comment on how little difference Silva’s presence would’ve made to the outcome of the battle. Besides, even still slightly weakened by his wounds, Silva had proven many times just how much difference he was capable of making.
“We’ll return soon enough, Mr. Silva,” Courtney Bradford consoled absently. The balding Australian had crowded in behind him in the cramped passageway between the berthing space forward and the engine room aft. He looked tired, disappointed, and… frightened? That wasn’t like him. “But we’re here, after all, and must at least have a look about while we are.” Even stranger, he sounded like he was trying to convince himself of that. “By the way,” he asked too casually, “have you seen Sergeant McGinnis? Or Corporal Miles? I need to have a word.”
“A word with both, or just Miles? Silva asked, then shrugged. “I dunno, but they ain’t pals. I doubt they’re together. Miles is prob’ly hidin’ from the water. Look someplace dry. Shouldn’t take long. Ain’t many places to hide in this little teacup.” He squinted. “Last I seen Miles was just before dawn, I guess, pukin’ over the fantail, right out in the rain. Worst case o’ Marine Pukery I ever saw; worse than Gunny Horn. What is it with those guys?” He frowned. “But Horn’s a right guy. Miles is a sneaky, squeaky, chickenshit little possum turd. Don’t know why he came. Prob’y playin’ hooky for real. What do you want with him?”
“It’s none of your concern, Mr. Silva,” Bradford assured somewhat forcefully, and that, of course, was the absolute worst thing he could’ve said if he wanted Silva to leave it alone. Without another w
ord, Bradford squeezed past and worked his way forward.
“Silva!” came Lawrence’s voice down the companionway. “Chack and Ensign Hardee are calling you on deck! You take a look at so’thing.”
“Oh, all right, you goofy little skink.” He turned to the comm-’Cat. “Sing out, you hear anything new.”
The ’Cat sighed. “Sure.”
Silva crouched and took a couple steps aft, careful not to conk his head on the low deck beams, then poked it up through the companionway. The rain had finally stopped and a small gap had opened in the clouds, letting a stream of morning sunlight touch the misty jungle to starboard. Far beyond, to the west-northwest, high, hazy mountains reared to the sky. He grunted and climbed the steps to stand on deck behind the conning station beside Chack, Lawrence, Nat Hardee, and Nat’s Lemurian XO. Two others were hurriedly rigging the.30-caliber machine gun on the hard point newly attached to the starboard splash-guard bulwark. Nat was clearly upset and trying hard not to show it. “Yep,” Silva said seriously, “it’s a jungle.”
“Look closer,” Chack said grimly, blinking furiously and pointing at the nearby shore. They’d all seen the jungle for the last couple of days, of course, but that was all they could see through the rain.
Silva squinted his good eye, then widened it. “I’ll swan,” was all he said. Erected at the shoreline near the massive, rotted, tangled roots of the great Galla tree they were moored to was a lattice of bright green bamboo-like stalks, lashed together and obviously positioned so they’d easily see it. Spread-eagled and tied to the lattice was a naked man. At least it looked like a man. The corpse was horribly mutilated, with the flesh flayed from the bones of the arms and legs. The torso, though roughly intact, had been split from pelvis to sternum, and glistening loops of entrails dangled down past the hide-lashed feet. Empty eye sockets gaped upward, and the lower jaw and tongue had been hacked away.
Straits of Hell: Destroyermen Page 48