Blood In the Water (36 page)

“It is,” Ror'at admitted. “But He . . . misses things that do not interest him when the curtain is drawn.”

Courtney beamed. “Then I assure you that the Sun Brother will find whatever Colonel Chack and Chief Silva come up with to do to the Grik quite interesting indeed! He will be most anxious to report it.”

Ror'at hesitated. “But why can't we wait? Something like this should be better planned.”

Silva snorted. “Plans are swell. I love 'em myself. Kinda like pretty pictures on the wall. Trouble is, they tend to go all to pieces when you whack a Grik on the head with 'em.” He grinned. “Me an' Chackie have a few plans, but they ain't complicated pictures, they're clubs. Simple an' easy. That's all this mob can handle, and you know it,” he stressed. “An' Chackie's right about another thing. The longer we wait, maybe just hours, the more likely there'll be a heap more lizards to fight.” He nodded at the scouts. “They say the tugs an' barges show up during the day. That means they're crossin' the Go Away Strait between here an' Africa at night, prob'ly to avoid our patrol planes. It's likely there'll be more here tomorrow.”

“Your Excellency,” Chack said seriously. “I will view the disposition of the enemy, and if it appears that anything might be gained by delay, we will certainly wait and plan as long as we must. But whether it is tonight, tomorrow night, or the night after that, we must attack in the dark. By all accounts—those we had before we came here and others you have told us—these Grik are disciplined troops, not the mindless hordes we've fought thus far. I believe we're still smarter and more flexible,” he assured, “but we're too few, too disorganized, and honestly, with your dependents to consider, far too . . . cumbersome to attempt anything else. In the dark lies our only chance for success, so you must embrace it—or go home.”

CHAPTER
25

Sovereign Nest of “Jaaph” Hunters
Zanzibar
October 11, 1944

Diania gently shook Sandra awake, hissing, “Min'ster Reddy! Do wake up, Min'ster Reddy! Sompin's goin' on!” Sandra sat up immediately in the near dark stateroom she and Diania had been imprisoned in for thirteen days, ever since
Amerika
was destroyed. She'd been out of it only once, except for twice-daily excursions down the short passageway to a nearby head, escorted by extremely disconcerted-looking guards. The dinner she'd attended the evening after their capture, along with Adar, Horn, and Lange, hadn't gone any better than their first meeting with Admiral Laborde. His captain, a man named Dupont, had even seemed intent on aggravating the tension. Sandra ate nothing, and when the strained conversation
inevitably veered back to the atrocity of the day, Sandra had implacably launched into another furious, threatening rant. She couldn't help herself.

The dinner had abruptly ended, and she had no idea if Adar and the men had been invited again. She hadn't been, and since then, hers and Diania's meals had been delivered to the stateroom. It was just as well, she'd bleakly realized. If she'd continued dining with their slimy, murdering captors, she probably would've done something incredibly rash at some point. Secreted inside a small pouch of medical supplies she and Diania had quickly stuffed in the bag they'd brought aboard was a lovely little ivory-handled Colt Model 1908 Pocket Hammerless in .380 ACP. Her father had given her the weapon, always a favorite “officer's” pistol, on her last visit home to Alexandria, Virginia, before the war began. She'd carried the gift across the gulf of worlds, stowed among her dwindling possessions.

It really wasn't much of a weapon, and would probably consume the entire single magazine of ammunition she had for it to kill a single Grik. Her hands were small, but she'd learned to handle a 1911 Colt and the local copies well enough. That's what she usually carried when the need arose, and she'd wished for the little .380 only once before, when she'd been taken—along with then-Princess Rebecca Anne McDonald—by the HNBC criminal Billingsly. She hadn't had it then, and hadn't expected to
keep
it this time, but despicable as she considered Laborde, his surprisingly chivalric gesture of countermanding Dupont's orders that she and Diania be searched may well save her life. On the other hand, if she'd been subjected to Laborde's company often enough, she was sure she would've eventually taken the pistol and murdered him, Dupont, and as many others as she could—before she and everyone else was killed.

She still wanted him dead for what he'd done, but her fury had dulled enough for reason to reassert itself. As long as she and her friends—and the baby inside her!—were alive, escape remained a possibility. She'd use the little Colt for that when the time came. Her husband and the Grand Alliance could be relied upon to exact revenge for
Amerika
's dead.

“What's happening, Diania?” she asked, quickly whipping her long, sandy brown hair into a knot behind her head. Glancing out the single porthole in their prison, she could see it was nearly dusk. With nothing
else to do, nothing to even read for almost two weeks, she and Diania spent most of their time either exercising or asleep. The exercise had been an eye-opener. Sandra had always kept herself fit, but the diminutive Diania, even shorter and more slightly built than she, had been teaching her a number of disabling moves she'd learned from Chief Bosun Fitzhugh Gray. In addition to all his other duties, Gray had always considered his primary task to be protecting Captain Reddy. Since Diania was so devoted to Sandra and meant to stay always at her side no matter what rating she ultimately earned in the Navy, Gray had suggested that she serve Matt Reddy's wife in the same capacity. It hadn't much complicated things when the gruff old “Super Bosun” and the tiny, dark-skinned Impie gal fell in love, but Diania had been devastated when Gray was killed. Sandra was gratified that their “exercises” not only gave her more confidence that she could physically protect herself, but despite their confinement, they also seemed to be helping Diania crawl out of the shell Gray's death had built around her. She remained a long way from the happy, cheerful soul she'd become in Sandra's company before, but she was getting better.

“I don't know, m'lady,” Diania replied. “Sompin'. The engines ha' stopped.”

Sandra stood and stepped to the porthole and peered out. “Uh-oh,” she said darkly. “This doesn't look good at all.” Outside, in the light of the setting sun, she could see that they were in a tropical port of some kind. She had no idea where, but quickly recognized most of the ships anchored nearby. All were of a design she'd come to associate with the Grik. There were quite a few of the “Indiaman”-type square riggers, but also several of the things Matt called “cruisers.” Worse, she thought, were a number of ironclad Grik “battleships” like the captured ones she'd seen at Madras. Those appeared to be undergoing various alterations, but she couldn't tell exactly what was being done in the failing light. Most concerning of all was the pair of modern ships steaming into the harbor to anchor alongside
Savoie
. One was a beat-up-looking, smallish tanker, but the other was a two-stack destroyer, considerably bigger than
Walker,
and armed with twice as many guns. Sandra couldn't see the flag on either ship in the gathering gloom.

There was a brisk knock on the wooden door, and it opened to the
light in the passageway. “Come, please,” said one of their guards in rough English.

“Where are we going?” Sandra demanded. The guard motioned helplessly at their few things neatly arranged around the stateroom and made a gathering gesture.

“Come, please,” he repeated. Sandra and Diania looked at each other, then quickly complied. Sandra was concerned that if they didn't, they'd be rushed out anyway, losing what little they had—including the Colt. In less than five minutes, they were being led topside. With a mixture of joy and dread, she saw Adar, Gunny Horn, Becher Lange, and the crew of their small boat. All were gathered near a gangway leading down to a rough-hewn but substantial dock, already lit by torches set in iron brackets. She realized with a surge of terror that many of the figures she saw on the dock and beyond were Grik. Then she saw with equal dread that several humans were waiting for them as well. Contre Amiral Laborde and Capitaine Dupont joined them, walking briskly, followed by a security detachment. Laborde looked at her and paused ever so slightly before Dupont and the first half of his security preceded him down the stairs that had been rigged out.

“Minister Reddy, Miss Diania,” Adar said quietly, “I am so glad to see you well!”

“We're both fine, Mr. Chairman,” Sandra replied, looking more closely at her friends. Adar looked harried, and Lange had started a beard. Horn's was longer and more bristly. Otherwise, they seemed healthy. The Lemurian sailors didn't look so good, however. 'Cats didn't do well in confinement. All three said they were fine as well, however, when she asked them how they were.

“Any idea where we are?” Sandra whispered when their guards urged them toward the stairs, but Adar shook his head, glancing skyward at the stars just beginning to appear.

“I have not viewed the Heavens since we saw you last,” he said, his tone pained. Apparently, Adar's captivity had worn on him as much as the other 'Cats. Maybe worse in some ways, since he was, above all, a Sky Priest. “At a glance I can only say that we must again be as far west as Liberty City, and somewhat north as well.” “Liberty City” was his name for “Grik City,” and despite the universal objection, he stubbornly persisted in calling it that.

“But . . . how far north?” Sandra pressed.

“Shh,” Horn breathed as they waited at the top of the steel steps. “Later,” he whispered. “The less they think we know about anything, the better.”

Unexpectedly, they were forced to wait a considerable time while the men on the dock carried on a lengthy, animated discussion. They used that time to catch up a little, talking quietly among themselves. When they were finally prodded forward, all fell silent as they stepped to the dock and advanced toward five men, still locked in what sounded like a heated debate. As they drew near, someone hushed them irritably, and three men stepped past Laborde and Dupont to stand before them. Confirming her first wild suspicions concerning the people here, Sandra saw that one was clearly Japanese. Was this the madman Kurokawa at last? She had no idea, but judging by his body language, he was obviously in charge. One of the other men was taller, dark haired, with a thin mustache. She suspected he was French simply because that's what it sounded like the argument had been in, and his uniform, very similar to Laborde's, seemed to confirm it.
Odd,
Sandra thought, looking at his rank.
Laborde outranks him, but this man is apparently his superior
. She couldn't tell as much about the third man since he'd stayed slightly back, the others blocking the torchlight.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Frenchman began in a deeply sorrowful, near-perfect English. “I am Capitaine de Fregate Victor Gravois, ranking representative here of the League of Tripoli. Before I say another word, please accept my most profound apologies for the loss of your ship and the nobly wounded troops embarked aboard her. I am . . .” He allowed a glare to fall upon the silent, stiff Laborde. “I am
stunned
to learn of her dreadful fate. Allow me to express condolences on behalf of myself, my mission here, and my government. To say that Contre Amiral Laborde exceeded his instructions by even confronting your ship, much less destroying her, renders the term ‘understatement' grossly inadequate. Furthermore, I also deeply apologize for the . . . limitation of freedoms you have since endured. That is nearly as unforgivable as the circumstances that brought it about. We shall discuss those ‘circumstances' and the relevant . . . aftereffects in a moment, but first allow me to present my colleagues.”

Without waiting for a response, Gravois motioned the man behind
him forward. “I am pleased to introduce my particular friend Maggiore Antonio Rizzo, of the Aeronautica Italiana.”

Rizzo stepped forward and snapped to attention, then bowed specifically before Sandra and Diania, sweeping his hat from his head. “A poignant pleasure to meet you, indeed, dear ladies,” he said, a great frown beneath his equally large mustache. He nodded curtly at the rest. “And you all as well, of course. I wish it had occurred under more pleasant, ah, conditions.”

Gravois nodded somberly, then turned slightly, somewhat hesitantly it seemed, to indicate the bespectacled Japanese officer standing beside him. “And not least, by any means, is His Excellency, General of the Sky Hideki Muriname. He is second in command of all the, ah, ‘people' on this island, and is currently in charge while his superior, General of the Sea Hisashi Kurokawa, is away. He speaks English,” Gravois hastened to add, “but perhaps not as well as I, and has agreed to allow me to greet you and . . . acquaint you with the further unhappy restraints you must bear.”

Sandra had been squinting into the darkness and saw several other Japanese—and Europeans as well. She wondered who they were. Obviously more members of Gravois's “mission,” but why hadn't he named them? That's when she caught the part about Kurokawa and restraints. Furious horror surged again, and she gathered herself to speak, to voice some objection, but Adar beat her to it.

“I cannot accept your apology,” he ground out. “Certainly not without an explanation.” He flicked his ears at Laborde. “A vessel under the control of your ‘League,' a power that has already displayed a great deal of antagonism toward us and our cause, not only blockaded a port and nation allied to us, but destroyed a hospital ship loaded with wounded troops. It then proceeded to transport us against our will into the custody of our deadliest enemy.” He glared at Muriname. “Such behavior can only be described as acts of war.”