Straits of Hell (51 page)

“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, and 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.”

//////
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 word, 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.

“Miles and McGinnis both have black hair,” Nat said simply. A bloody black mop of hair was the corpse's only distinguishing feature. Courtney climbed from below, shaking his head, followed by a pale Ian Miles. “Sergeant McGinnis is not aboard,” he said. Miles quickly saw what they were all staring at and took a step back toward the companionway, his mouth working.

“Poor bastard,” Silva said. “I kinda . . . didn't hate McGinnis.” His
tone and convoluted statement made it clear he'd have preferred it if Courtney found the sergeant alive instead of Miles.

“But who gitteem?” cried Nat's XO. “They had'ta come aboard! Along the Galla tree!”

“And they could've gotten us all,” Chack agreed. “Why not?”

“'Cause whoever it is either figgered they couldn't take us all—or mainly wanted to scare us off,” Silva said, looking at the deck. “Too bad I can't see no tracks. No way to tell
what
they are.”

“What,” Chack said. “You mean ‘what kind of people.'” It wasn't a question.

“No ‘people' did that, but yeah. Whether it was humans like the Maroons—or the 'Cats we came lookin' for.”

“Scaring us off worked on me,” Nat said abruptly. “We're getting out of here.”

“Damn right!” Miles agreed.

“No, we're not!” Courtney said harshly. “Not yet!”

“But, Mr. Bradford!” Nat objected.

“I'm in charge here!”

“No,” Chack said softly. “I am. You're in charge of any negotiations our presence may bring about, but I'm in charge of the mission.” He took a long breath. “That said, we came here for a reason, and we
must
go ashore and discover exactly who is responsible for this.”

“What
you
mean is, to find out whether it was 'Cats or not,” Silva said. “The very folks we came to meet!” Chack jerked a nod. “Well, I'm game, Chackie, you know that,” he said, louder now, but still looking at his friend. They all knew the Grik were capable of terrible things. So were the human Doms. But they'd never encountered any Lemurians in all their travels even remotely capable of what they now beheld. They were always the ‘good guys,' generally peace loving, friendly, even possibly
better
in their own minds, in some indefinable moral way. And if it had been a tribe of Lemurians who did this thing, it could surely shake things up. Silva loved to shake things up, but even he wasn't sure this was the best time for a racial, psychic shock like this. “If it was 'Cats, it was probably just one crummy little tribe that tries to scare folks instead of fightin',” he consoled, “but my money's on none of 'em bein' quite as shy an' peaceable as them Maroon fellas made out. And if I'm right, I wonder why they went on like they were?”

“Because this may not have been done by Lemurians at all,” Courtney stated, still more harshly than his custom, “or as you say, it could've been the work of a single, isolated tribe.”

“Or they told you that 'cause you ex'ect to hear it,” Lawrence speculated, “and didn't tell the truth 'cause they ha' just joined our struggle against the Grik, a struggle o'
'Cats
. They not anger us.”

Silva appraised his Grik-like friend with rising brows. “Makes sense, an' that's what I woulda' done,” he agreed. “Never piss off the guys with guns, fightin' on your side.” He looked at Chack. “So we're stayin'?”

“For a while.”

Silva nodded and opened a locker on the bulwark, retrieving his “personal” Thompson. He removed the magazine, checked it, then reinserted it and pulled the bolt back.

“What are you going to do?” Courtney asked, suddenly alarmed. “We will stay, but in light of this new . . . development, we must carefully plan any explorations!”

Silva looked at the gruesome display ashore and then touched the guard on the cutlass hanging at his side. “Whoever done that—a nutty human offshoot o' the Maroons, wild, cannibal 'Cats, or the goddamn tooth fairy—they sneaked up on us to do it, and I doubt they gave McGinnis any kinda chance. Buncha
cowards
!” he suddenly bellowed, and Petey jerked on his perch around the back of Silva's neck. The shout echoed dully off the surrounding jungle, and small flying creatures leaped into the air with raucous cries. He stepped around the bulwark and headed for the bow and the fallen tree beyond. “Somebody's gotta go cut him down,” he growled.

Chack hopped over the bulwark and pulled his own cutlass. “I will go with you, my friend,” he called, then looked back. “No one ever goes anywhere, or even stands on the deck of the Seven boat in this terrible place alone!” he said.

“I think we need to get the hell out of here,” Miles insisted quietly.

Palace of Vanished Gods
Sofesshk

First General Esshk, now wearing a long red robe instead of the shorter, customary cape over his armor, paced within the vast sunlit chamber of
the Palace of Vanished Gods that he'd made his own. The new robe proclaimed his elevated status of Regent Champion of all the Ghaarrichk'k, and it swayed and dusted the tightly fitted stone floor as he strode back and forth, hands clasped before him in contemplation. The walls of the chamber were covered by dense, climbing ivies reminiscent of Tsalka's lost palace on Ceylon. Together with the sunlight that bathed him by ingenious reflections through various openings, it was a far more inviting abode than the similarly arranged, but dank and dreary halls within the Celestial Palace on Madagascar.

He wondered again how the slain Celestial Mother and her ancestors could've chosen to dwell in such a place when this one still existed. Perhaps her removal had been originally inspired by a desire to keep her remote from her subjects? A distant, unseen, idealized god was always easier to worship than one visible to all, he supposed. And though the previous Celestial Mother had been cunning in her way, and wore her authority with a sublime assurance, she'd been naive and suffused with too
much
assurance, perhaps, that her divinity should be universally accepted. Even by their foes. Better that she'd been so far away, Esshk decided. Her appearance had certainly been impressive and intimidating, even beautiful in his eyes, but liable only to inspire a fanatical, emulative gluttony in the elite Hij that might have had contact with her here. And her death, such as it was; revealed so publicly, so traumatically . . . He didn't know how that would've affected the continental population. All knew she was dead and remained in a vengeful mood, but only he and the Chooser, through spies the Chooser had left behind—and no longer had access to, he fumed—knew how the Celestial Mother's very pathetically dead head had been displayed on the palace steps. . . . He pushed that thought aside.