24
////// “Battle of the Hoo-dooy-yammy”
May 6, 1944
“Plans are all just a stupid waste of time,” Silva grumped softly. “Nobody ever uses the damn things when it gets down to it.”
The boarding party assigned to break through the Japanese closest to the ship had been waiting in place for almost three hours, and the general attack on the perimeter should’ve begun more than an hour before. This was on top of all the time it took everyone to get in position, and it had to be close to 0300. “If we don’t get on with it, we’ll be at ’em in the daylight, because we can’t just sit here and wait for ’em to see us. They’ll pick us off like flies.”
“Plans do seem highly overrated,” Horn agreed.
“It take longer to get Jaaphs surrounded than exkected, I guess,” I’joorka said. Silva looked at him in the gloom.
“Hey, do your fellas see pretty good in the dark? Larry sees better than me, but most folks do nowadays. Grik don’t fight a lot in the dark, though, an’ we always figgered it was because they got crummy night vision.”
I’joorka cocked his head. “I don’t see as good in night as day, ’ut I can still kill Jaaphs.”
Dennis looked at Lawrence, who seemed utterly motionless, peering from behind a big, gnarled root at the edge of the trees. Only a meager, telltale scritching sound betrayed that any part of him was moving. “What’re they doin’?”
“They changed their guards a little ago. I seen they clear. They got . . . phires in a circle around their shelters on the other side o’ they. Stu’id!”
“Yeah, stupid. They’re fine targets even for good crossbowmen. But what about that forted-up spot close the water? What do you think?”
“I think they got a light ’achine gun there, like you say.”
Dennis scooted back and turned to sit in the sand. “Yeah. Figgers. They may be stupid, but we can’t count on ’em bein’ nuts. I would’a put machine guns all around the perimeter if I was them and had ’em—which I guess they do. Wish we had grenades!”
“Look at the bright side,” Horn urged absently, staring at Lawrence. “There shouldn’t be many, if any, light machine guns left on the ship.”
“I bet there’ll be one,” Silva predicted. “At least one. Right at the top of that brushy gangplank we gotta go up!”
“Hey!” Horn hissed. “Why so gloomy? I’ve never seen you like this.” He took a breath, realization dawning. “It’s that gal! You’re worried about Lieutenant Cross!”
“Am not!” Dennis denied. “That’s the stupidest thing you ever said. Besides, even if I was a little partial to her, she’s probably got the easiest job tonight—and she can take care of herself.”
“Sure. You always were a bad liar.”
“That’s a lie!” Silva denied, indignantly. “You’d be amazed what I’ve got away with lately!”
Horn chuckled quietly, but looked back at Lawrence. “Say, what the hell’s he scritchin’ on? He got a case of the jitters?”
“Not much gives my little lizard buddy pause,” Silva stated. “He’s just manicurin’ his claws.”
“Sharpening them?” Horn guessed.
“Nah. Dullin’ a few of ’em up on a rock. He does that now and then to handle cartridges for his rifle better. His finger claws ain’t as big as a Grik’s, but they can make ’eem fumble a bit. He rakes ’em off to where his finger pads can get a grip. Not as likely to set his damn rifle off by accident either.”
“Huh.” Horn settled back. “A real bad liar, if I recall,” he continued.
“Maybe I’ve took a stone to that skill,” Silva defended.
“You didn’t beat the rap at the Fourth Marines Club in Shanghai,” Horn reminded, and they both chuckled. “I think you broke every specification under Rule Nine: intoxication, misconduct, destruction of club property, skylarking! What the hell’s that?”
“I think it’s aimed mostly at Navy men,” Dennis snorted.
“Then they tacked on ‘objectionable conduct’! I figured misconduct would’ve covered that.”
“They just threw that in because somebody objected extra loud to my misconduct.”
Horn looked at I’joorka, who was staring at them. “Got us both thrown out of the club for good!” he explained. “Not that it mattered. Lotsa better places to kick up your heels in Shanghai.” I’joorka nodded politely, but had no clue what they were talking about. Horn frowned. “Not counting the fight with the super lizard and the Akashis, since those just fell on us, this’ll be the first fight we’ve been in together since that goose pull-down on Soochow Creek.”
“We got a medal for that,” Dennis practically giggled.
“Shoosh!” Lawrence hissed.
“Shoosh yerself!” Dennis whispered back. “We can hear you preenin’ yer nails from here!” He eyed Horn. “Course, that one wasn’t real.”
“They might’ve given us real medals if it wouldn’t’ve pissed off half the world,” Horn reminded.
Silva’s smile faded. “Yeah.”
They both sat silent after that, contemplating an anecdotal episode that they alone in all the world—except Dean Laney, whom neither liked—remembered, and the only sounds were buzzing, rattling insects, punctuated by the harsh shrieks of night creatures. Then, suddenly, from half a mile out over the water came the muffled but distinctive clattering burrrrup! of Pam’s Blitzer Bug. Lawrence tensed, but it didn’t look like any of the Japanese paid much attention until it came again, and heads began to bob behind the perimeter breastworks.
Silva shifted back to look for himself. “Damn it, I hope Cook heard that!”
He must have, because just then, whether he was ready to attack or not, a terrible ululating screech arose, gathering voices until it thundered all around the enemy camp. More heads bobbed, but then, with a muffled, whickering hiss, hundreds of crossbow bolts and arrows streaked through the dark, slashing across the firelight. Some must’ve found a mark, because terrified, agonized shrieks and cries erupted here and there. A machine gun stuttered. Then another.
Gunny Horn hefted his BAR in his left hand and absently patted the belt of magazine pouches encircling his torso. Dennis nodded to himself and slid the triangular bayonet out of the scabbard he’d added to his pistol belt and quietly affixed it to the muzzle of his borrowed rifle, twisting it until it latched on the front sight lug, then turning the locking ring. Lawrence had already fixed his bayonet, and his yellowish eyes glowed in the light of the fires and sudden, flashing shots as he stared back at Dennis. I’joorka had a crossbow, like most of his warriors, and he edged forward. The woods behind him were filled with shifting, jostling, whispering Khonashis as they prepared for their part in the attack.
The Japanese perimeter was becoming a place of nervous chaos. Sailors awakened by the growing fight on the south breastworks dashed out of shelters, carrying Arisaka rifles and even a few spears. An officer hurried them along, waving a sword. Several men snatched up a light machine gun at the foot of the gangplank and awkwardly carried it and two crates of ammunition toward the sound of battle.
“That’s handy,” Silva murmured. “Didn’t even suspect that one.” He frowned. “How many of the damn things do they have?”
“Figure one on the other side of the perimeter, like the one in front of us. That one . . . and it sounds like maybe three more already shooting. Six, at least. I guess that’s about right, but they may still have some mounted on the ship.” He looked at I’joorka. “Remember what to do?”
The Khonashi jerked his head in agreement.
“Then good luck.”
“No such t’ing as yuck,” I’joorka said. He grasped a handful of leafy, moldy turf. “This is the skin o’ our God,” he said, then gestured around. “The trees is his crest. He is ours. Jaaphs is like nasty ticks, an’ us gotta yank they out!”
“Okay. Well . . . happy yankin’,” Dennis said dubiously, and looked at Horn. “I thought I was gettin’ used to runnin’ into crackpot religions, but dirt worshippers?” he said when I’joorka moved down to the very edge of the trees.
“Who cares, as long as they’re on our side?” Horn replied. “I figure a fella can pray to a toad as long as he doesn’t try to make me do it.”
“But that’s always the itch, ain’t it?”
Before Silva or Horn could continue their theological discussion, something neither was particularly comfortable with, I’joorka trilled a distinctive, hair-raising cry unlike anything they’d heard before. It was like a Grik war cry in a way, but it was a singular thing, unaccompanied by thousands of voices, like Dennis had always heard before. He stood, along with Horn and Lawrence, and most of I’joorka’s force burst from the trees and down to the beach, where they quickly formed a ragged line. At another shrill cry, every crossbow and longbow was raised and pointed at the Japanese machine-gun position about seventy yards away. Without any further command, the missiles were released in a whickering wave of twanging strings or clacking rollers, and a hundred bolts and arrows converged on the suddenly terrified, staring Japanese machine gunners. The sharp projectiles festooned the area around the weapon—and the half dozen men within. Only one even managed a scream.
“Let’s go!” Silva roared, and he, Horn, Lawrence, and ten human Khonashis armed with longbows and swords charged through I’joorka’s troops toward the Japanese perimeter. Other longbowmen joined them as they passed, and Silva shouted, “Even better than a grenade!” as he ran by I’joorka. The Khonashi war leader was already trilling for his warriors to launch another flight of bolts beyond their initial aiming point.
Lawrence reached the gun pit first but saw nothing alive. He immediately detailed several men to turn the weapon south. Horn’s BAR hammered up the line at Japanese firing down the breastworks. A Khonashi man screamed and fell, then another. Dennis jumped down beside the machine gun and looked at it for a second. He snatched a pair of paint-daubed men to help him. “One o’ those Type Eleven heaps,” he declared. “Okay, I’m a little rusty on these, but here goes!” He felt in the hopper mounted on the side of the weapon to ensure it was loaded, then racked the bolt back. Settling down behind the buttstock, he aimed up the perimeter as best he could and squeezed the trigger. The thing didn’t kick at all, with its bipod and relatively light 6.5-millimeter cartridges, but the report of his three- and four-round bursts echoed back from the trees with a harsh, crackling rush. “Crap! No tracers!” he complained, but he hadn’t really expected them. The Type 11 was designed to be loaded with standard five-round stripper clips, the same that Japanese rifles used, fed in the hopper. The incoming fire tapered off, and Dennis stood and flung one of the men he’d grabbed behind the gun.
“You speakee English?” he demanded.
“Some . . . little . . .”
“Good enough. You’re a machine gunner now. No! Put the butt to your shoulder, not under your damn arm! There! Keep that knob up there in the notch, if you can see it, and put it on the Japs! Short bursts—just squeeze the trigger and let it go. It’s up to you to keep those bastards back.” He grabbed the other man. “See these clips?” he demanded, snatching one from the metal crate. “Keep stackin’ ’em in the hopper here, like this.” He demonstrated. He got the gunner’s attention again. “When it jams or quits shootin’—an’ it will—just yank this bolt back and try again.” He looked around at the Khonashis Lawrence had detailed to assist. “You keep the Japs off ’em with your bows.” He waved at a couple of rifles lying in the pit. “Don’t fool with those. You’ll get killed while you’re trying to figure ’em out.” He pointed at the Type 11. “But if that thing quits and you can’t get it goin’ again, throw it in the water, if it’s the last thing you ever do!” With that, he raced after Lawrence and Gunny Horn, who’d already charged forward with I’joorka’s advancing ranks. I’joorka was shouting something that must’ve meant “Here, here,” as he placed Khonashis in a skirmish line in the brush along the shore. They were nearly invisible against the dark water and should be able to discourage any enemies that got past the machine gun and tried to come around behind them.
Silva moved among the trees alongside the big Japanese destroyer, which was snugged to a makeshift timber dock. Horn’s BAR hammered up ahead in the tangle of wooden cranes and camouflage, and Lawrence’s rifle boomed and flashed. Other muzzle flashes sparkled in the dark amid a swirl of foreign, alien shouts and screams, and the clash of steel as swords met rifle barrels and bayonets. Wood shattered, and blizzards of splinters flew as a heavy automatic weapon on the ship joined the fight with pounding, thunderous reports, but its crew had to be careful because the melee had become so mixed. Dennis saw a Japanese sailor right in front of him, aiming his rifle at somebody, and he slammed his bayonet into the exposed chest behind the man’s elbow. There was a scream, and Silva twisted his rifle away and thrust again, even as the man crumpled to the ground. Another man ran at him and nearly got shot before they both realized they were on the same side. The dark man made a strange, apologetic gesture, then turned and vanished in the night.
“Dennis! Dennis!” Lawrence was shouting, and Silva hurried to catch his friend. The lizard was panting, his tongue lolling, bayonet black with blood. Horn’s BAR slashed at a stuttering gun through the tree cranes, and Dennis realized it must be the one they’d seen carried away. “Quit skylarking,” Lawrence admonished. He must’ve been listening earlier. “Us gotta get on the shi’ afore the Jaaphs get their shit in their socks!” he shouted over the noise.
“What’s up the ramp?”
“There’s no ’achine gun!”
“How ’bout that? Where’s I’joorka? I’joorka!” he yelled.
“Here!”
Small exploding shells erupted among them, shattering trees and bodies and throwing clouds of sand in the air. Dennis spat bloody grit and dragged Lawrence from the dubious protection of a teetering tree he’d ducked behind. “We gotta silence that big boy up there, that twenty-five millimeter, or it’ll chew us up on the gangplank!” A bullet splintered the butt of Silva’s rifle and snatched it out of his hand.
“Goddammit, Gunny. Can’t you shut that machine gun up? We need you to put fire on that gun tub up there!” He pointed high amidships on the destroyer.
“I’m doing my best!” Horn yelled, dropping an empty magazine and fumbling for another.
“Then quit goofin’ around an’ do better! I’joorka,” Dennis cried, “try and do what you done before! Get as many arrows as you can to fall in that tub up yonder!”
“I try. It hard to gather Khonashis! They get lost in dark an’ killing!”
Silva thought there were forty or so warriors present. “Do it with these! As soon as you shoot, we go up! The arrows ought to at least keep their heads down long enough for us to board!” He pulled his precious.45 and placed it in his left hand, then drew his 1917 Navy cutlass. “Give the word or hoot or whatever you do!”
Another burst of 25-millimeter fire sprayed the trees, a little to the side, but I’joorka raised his odd cry again and added what must’ve been instructions. A final cry loosed the arrows, and Silva flipped his head so his helmet would lay farther back. “Let’s go!” he roared. The long gangplank connected the dock to Hidoiame just forward of amidships on her starboard side, and it juddered and bounced under running feet. A Japanese sailor appeared at the top, rifle at port arms. His expression showed amazement, then terror that the attackers had already made it this far. He had no time to register another thought before Silva’s first pistol shot struck him below his left eye. Another sailor was behind him, but the falling body kept him from raising his rifle in the confined space. Silva shot him too, then bolted left, toward the elevated gun platforms aft. A dozen yipping Khonashis followed. Lawrence turned right, leaping the bodies, and charged forward with his own squad, his bayonet leveled before him.
Gunny Horn’s BAR pounded the night and finally silenced the Japanese machine gun, but the weapon they’d captured earlier went quiet as well. The sound of battle was still growing, however, and at least one more of the perimeter guns had gone down. Dennis resheathed his cutlass and scrambled up the damp iron rungs of a ladder. The arrows from below had stopped, and the surviving gunners on the .25 were starting to peer over the lip of the steel tub when Silva jumped in from behind, his 1911 Colt already barking. The gunners sprawled on the bloody deck, joining two others with arrows in their bodies.
“Quick!” Dennis roared at the Khonashis who’d followed his charge. “Check the other tubs!” He pointed in case they didn’t understand. He stabbed the magazine release button with his thumb, and the empty magazine clattered on the deck. His left hand had already grabbed a full one from his pouch, and he slammed it in the well. Lawrence’s.50-80 rifle boomed forward and smoke drifted aft in the dim light of an open porthole. Dennis quickly scanned his surroundings. There was a screech from a nearby gun tub, quickly silenced by ringing swords. More rifle fire erupted near the fantail, and small, high-velocity bullets crackled past. He couldn’t worry about that. His squad of Khonashis would have to deal with it. He started to try to bring the 25mm up to support the attack in the woods, but realized he couldn’t do that either! The jungle battle around and within the perimeter was a seething, chaotic mess. He was almost sure Abel’s force, at least, had broken through on its right, but it had become impossible to differentiate targets. Even where he knew the Japanese were, he couldn’t shoot the powerful weapon without risking friendlies beyond! He swore.
Horn’s muzzle flashes were at the top of the ramp now, pulsing outward. He would’ve come up as a rear guard, Dennis was certain, which meant most of their boarding party had to be on the ship. He wondered if that meant there were seventy or eighty of them, or just ten or twelve by now. He snatched at a Khonashi lizard running aft. “I’joorka?” He shouted. The warrior waved behind him, and Silva saw the creature. At least he thought it was him. “I’joorka? Is that you?”
The warrior joined him, breathing hard. “It is I.”
“Good.” Silva waved at the cluster of gun tubs. “We can’t use these—too dangerous to our folks—but you gotta keep the Japs from takin’ ’em back!”
“I do it!”
“Swell! I’m goin’ forward. You keep an eye on the companionways too. There’s bound to be Japs below, tryin’ to sneak up at us.”
“Yes! Good!”
Dennis pushed his slide release, chambering another round in his Colt, then hopped the tub and ran back the way he’d come. Horn was lying prone on the deck beside the two sailors Dennis killed, but two more had been piled across the gangplank and Horn was using them for protection and a rest. Beside him, two men were trying to figure out the second Type 11 they must have captured, and several crossbowmen were covering them.
“Hey, Gunny,” Silva called.
“Hey, yourself,” Horn shouted between bursts. “This is the most goofed-up fight I’ve been in since I don’t know when!”
“Yeah. Ain’t a patch to some I’ve seen lately. Kind of a hoot, though, huh?”
“You always were nuts. Get down, wilya, before some Jap knocks your noodle off.”
“I gotta check on Larry, forward,” Silva replied. “I’joorka’s gonna finish clearin’ the topside, aft. You just keep any more Japs from gettin’ aboard.”
“You got it.”
Silva trotted forward, his boondockers making remarkably little noise on the linoleum-covered deck. He’d seen Amagi while they were breaking her up, and the scorched-and-melted linoleum had been a surprise at the time, but he kind of expected it now. It was probably handy with the right shoes, he reflected, but slick under his leather soles. “Japs are so weird,” he muttered, seeing another unidentifiable fixture attached to the deck. No doubt it did something, but why couldn’t it look like anything it ought to do? At that moment he was all alone, though he could hear fighting ahead. He passed every hatch and port with care, half expecting shots from within, but so far there didn’t seem to be anyone belowdecks. There had to be Jap snipes aboard! At least one boiler was lit to power the pumps and the few lights he’d seen. Maybe they’d already come up and had their go?
He clambered up the stairs to the long, raised fo’c’sle, and almost tripped over a pile of bodies lying in a twisted, bloody heap. There were Japs and Khonashis there, but no Lawrence, he was glad to see. There was another boom ahead, muffled, maybe inside the long, narrow bridge structure, followed by the dull popping of a semiauto pistol. He darted through a hatch—and right in the middle of a brawl. Two Khonashis lay dead or hurt just inside the cramped space, but the rest, five or six, had closed with their enemies before the pistols could overwhelm their swords. The lizardlike Khonashis used their teeth and claws just like Grik, and Silva couldn’t help feeling an inner, visceral twinge. He saw Larry then, pinning a man to a bulkhead with his bayonet, wailing with a vocal savagery he’d never seen in the little guy. Larry was a killing fiend when it came down to it, but he was usually quieter about it.
A sailor managed to work his pistol around to shoot the Khonashi man he grappled with, and when the man fell, Dennis put two bullets in the sailor. He got a quick opening and shot another man, but there was just so little room and the desperate fight so fluid! He yanked out his cutlass and dove in.
“More Nips comin’ down the companionway from above!” he shouted, seeing legs pumping down the stairs beside him. He stabbed at one, tripping what looked like an officer, and the man tumbled headfirst to the deck. He hopped the handrail and started up, but found himself face-to-face with another officer, pointing one of the stumpy-looking Nambu pistols right at Silva’s good eye. Maybe it was the sudden appearance of the towering, one-eyed, blood-smeared apparition that gave the Japanese officer pause, but Silva didn’t hesitate, and stabbed forward without thought. The pistol must’ve drawn his aim, because the clipped point of the cutlass pierced the officer’s hand and drove up through his arm alongside the bone. The pistol clattered down the stairs, and the man screamed shrilly. Dennis dragged his blade free with a savage snarl.
“I surrender! Surrender!” the officer squalled. Dennis checked his killing blow and glanced at the braid on the bloody sleeve.
“Okay, Commander Nip. Up you go!” He motioned back up the companionway. “One wrong move, and I’ll split your goddamn spine! Larry!” he yelled down. “Quit”—he grinned—“skylarkin’ around with those Japs and get your stripey ass up here!”
There were several unarmed men waiting nervously on the bridge, and the remnants of Lawrence’s squad took them prisoner. There was no discussion of terms and none officially surrendered, but the only choice was instant obedience or death. None courted the latter.
“Any o’ you the captain o’ this tub?” Dennis demanded. No one answered, but he knew Japanese rank insignia and he saw the furtive glances. He rested the tip of his cutlass against the chest of an officer who glared back at him, teeth grinding, eyes bulging. “You’re the guy. Kurita, ain’t it?” Silva’s eye glittered with hate, and he smiled in that frightening way he sometimes did that left no doubt what he was capable of. “You’re gonna wish my ol’ Walker had sunk your murderin’ ass!” He paused then and frowned. “But much as I’d enjoy skewerin’ you right now, for what you done to prisoners an’ civilians, there’s a few folks who deserve to watch you die more than me.” He pushed forward with the blade until the point drew blood. “You’re gonna hang, mister!” He finally stepped back and waved the Khonashis forward. “Tie these bastards up good.”
Dennis removed his helmet and slung the sweat from his brows with a finger. “Whoo,” he said, looking out the high bridge windows at the darkness beyond; then he strode out on the starboard bridgewing. “Damn thing’s big as a cruiser,” he muttered, looking down. Little light from the moon could reach through all the trees and brush rigged to conceal the ship, but he finally got a decent feel for Hidoiame’s size. He almost snorted at the idea of poor little Walker going up against such a thing, but he’d seen clear evidence of damage here and there, and of course Walker had gone up against Amagi. Instead he gazed about. One machine gun still chattered to the south, but a roaring tide of what he distinctly recognized as Lemurian voices was surging in from the direction of the prison camp. Horn’s BAR was silent at last, and he hoped it was because he had no targets.
All in all, a pretty happy fight, Dennis thought optimistically, and all our immediate objectives met. A pang rolled his stomach and he remembered Fristar. I wonder how that went? He walked through the bridge. “Tell your pals to get those Japs the hell outa here,” he told Lawrence. “If they make a peep, they can eat ’em.” Lawrence relayed the command, though some probably understood. More importantly, most of the Japanese surely did.
“Now?” Lawrence asked, joining Silva on the port bridgewing, squinting to pierce the brush and darkness.
“We’ll have to chase the rats out from below,” he patted the rail, “but I’m startin’ to think we may have ourselves a brand-new, slightly used, Jap tin can to add to our humble fleet!” He grinned at his friend, but then turned back to stare at the gloom. “I wish we knew what the hell’s goin’ on out on Fristar, though. I don’t see any muzzle flashes out there, so maybe the fightin’s over, but I can’t see the damn big-ass ship neither.”
Lawrence squinted harder. “A ’Cat could see. Not I, though.”
“C’mon,” Silva said. “Let’s get out on deck. We’ll see how the fight’s goin’ ashore, but we need to post fellas at all the hatches we can find and make a sweep fore to aft.”
They were about halfway down the switchback companionways when it started. There was a heavy, rending crunch, and the whole ship began to lean to starboard. Almost in slow motion, it kept rolling farther and farther onto its side. Silva and Lawrence grabbed the rail and hung on, utterly mystified, as the lights flickered off and the crunch became an all-consuming, ripping, grinding screech. Both fell against the bulkhead that was quickly becoming the deck, and then the entire ship seemed to surge sideways with a wrenching crack. Still they rolled, until the bridge structure slammed down against the dock itself and Silva was momentarily stunned.
“’At the hell?” Lawrence demanded, his voice high-pitched, as the light structure around them began to collapse.
“Fristar cut her cables,” Silva explained simply, dizzily, “and the tide brought her ashore. That’s why she wasn’t where we was lookin’. She was already on top of us!”
The plates rumbled with the vibration of tons of water gushing into the hull, and the hot boiler exploded, jolting them even harder against sharp steel and fittings in the dark.
“We’ve just been sat on by a brontasarry!” Silva laughed bitterly. “C’mon. We better get the hell outa here!”
* * *
“Jesus Christ, Silva,” Alan Letts groaned. “I’ve seen you make messes in the past, but this is . . . amazing.” Letts was standing, hands on hips, staring at the aftermath of the battle—and the catastrophic . . . crushing of Hidoiame by Fristar Home.
“Yeah? Well, you missed some of my better ones, an’ this ain’t even my fault,” Dennis griped. He was wiping sand from his monstrous rifle, laid across his lap, and sitting near the same overlook west of the cove where he and the others laid the plan that actually went amazingly well—with one glaring exception. Cutting Fristar’s cables had been a mistake. But they’d never imagined all those ’Cats they’d seen working on her or towing gri-kakka alongside during the day were being kept ashore with the rest of the prisoners, leaving nothing but a few Japanese caretakers aboard. Perhaps it made some kind of sense, but Dennis couldn’t see it. Ultimately, Pam and Brassey’s boarding party killed or captured all the Japanese quickly enough, but they didn’t have the people to fully man even two of the great sweep oars needed to move Fristar out of the cove. Just ten of her hundred great sweeps might’ve kept her off the beach against the incoming tide, but two didn’t even slow her down. They tried everything they could while the battle raged ashore. They tied cables to Fristar’s guns and tipped them over the side, but they dragged. They even tried to sink her, by opening the great seacocks used periodically to flood the ship down, but that was much too slow. Fristar took on enough water to make it easier to get her off the beach after they pumped her out, but nothing they’d done could save Hidoiame from being crushed like a beer can by a truck tire.
Fristar was moored in the middle of the cove again, her freed people working to repair the damage to her bow. But Hidoiame lay, her forward half high on shore, nearly upside down. A crumpled funnel and her highest 25-millimeter tub was all that remained visible of her sunken stern section. Some of I’joorka’s warriors were still on the bottom with it.
Also in the cove, however, five days after the battle, were half a dozen PB-1B Nancys and two of the great four-engine “Clipper” flying boats, all secured to a hastily rigged pier.
“It’s a good thing we spotted your signal when we did,” Letts said, turning to look at him, “and the pilot decided to check it out, thinking it was too tight a smoke column for a lightning fire.” He chuckled. “Imagine his surprise when he saw a big arrow laid out in a clearing beside the word ‘Japs’! That was good thinking. That one word—and the signal itself—told us an awful lot.”
“I didn’t do it,” Silva said, opening the trapdoor breech of his weapon to tease more sand out with a rag. Damn Moe buried the thing to hide it, then nearly couldn’t find it in the daylight! Maybe he’s hurtin’ a little, an’ that’s some excuse, he conceded, but I’d hate to’ve lost the Doom Stomper! Just as well I didn’t have it with me, though, he reflected. It’s really not good for much other than killin’ super lizards or blowin’ up Blood Cardinals at a distance. Not the best choice for close combat at all. He flapped sand off the rag and went back to work. There was a red-stained bandage wrapped around his head where he’d conked it when Hidoiame flipped, and he still felt a little woozy.
“I don’t care who did it; it brought us here,” Alan continued. “And when we got our first report of what happened, we came as quick as we could with medical supplies and corps ’Cats.” He paused. “You did well, Silva. The Skipper’s happy. I sent word by wireless before I came.”
“Mr. Cook was in command,” Dennis insisted, looking at Alan intently. “He really was! He’s a good kid, an’ ready for more.” He looked down. “But I missed my boat.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Alan assured. “Seems I’m kind of in charge while everybody’s gone.” He looked back at the cove. “You made friendly contact with potential allies, and not just the jungle Grik we were hoping for, but more humans!” he said at last. “Mr. Bradford’s liable to hang himself for missing meeting them.” He paused. “And how ever it happened, Hidoiame’s goose is cooked for good. You also helped shape what’ll turn out to be a couple of damn good officers. I think that’s earned you a seat on one of the supply flights west. You can catch Walker at Andaman Island.”
“Thanks, Mr. Letts. Larry gets a seat too?”
Alan laughed. “I wouldn’t think of splitting you two up!” He arched an ironic brow. “At least not now. I thought we’d need him to liaise with these Khonashi folks, but for some reason a lot of them speak at least a little English. Imagine that.”
“Sure surprised me,” Dennis admitted truthfully. So far, Tony Scott was keeping scarce. Dennis suspected Walker’s old coxswain would come forward eventually, but he had a lot of thinking to do—not just about himself—and Silva wouldn’t blow. Nobody else would either. They’d discussed it as soon as they saw the first Nancy fly over. Tony Scott had earned the right to decide what was best for himself and his people.
Alan sighed. He knew something was up, but he also knew it was pointless to push Silva past what he’d already said. At least for now. “I’m going to leave Mr. Cook and Mr. Brassey here for now as our representatives to these folks. I’ll probably send Moe back too, once he’s better.” Moe had been shot through the left bicep by a 6.5, and the little bullet blew out a pretty good chunk of meat. “He and his Marines are the only ’Cats they like around here right now.” The lost Marines had returned during the fighting with ’Cats from the wellheads, and that had been a relief. “He’ll have help,” Alan went on, “a real diplomatic contingent eventually, and Adar already sent word that any hunters who summarily shoot anybody that looks like a loose Grik on Borno without being attacked will go on trial for murder.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Dennis judged, “but apparently there’s some bad lizards runnin’ around out there.” He waved at the jungle to the south. “General orders can be just a tad general sometimes, if you get my meanin’. Have to sort that out.” He stared down at Hidoiame’s corpse. “If you was askin’ me, though, I wouldn’t leave Mr. Cook here long. Think about sendin’ him east. He’s pinin’ for Princess Becky—I mean the Governor-Empress—and I bet he’d be good for her too.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Dennis nodded. “Let me take Gunny Horn with me too.”
“He’s hurt. Damn, Dennis, he practically had a ship fall on him!”
“He ain’t hurt that bad. He’ll want to go.”
Alan shrugged. “Sure you don’t want to take that weird little Grik brass picker with you too?”
“Nah. You can keep him.”
“Okay. Well, I’m going back down there”—Alan waved—“and try to talk to I’joorka. See if I can get him to spare some of the Jap prisoners. Not all of them were bad men.”
“What about the officers?”
“They’ll hang for what they did at Okada’s colony—not to mention what they did to their prisoners here and before.”
Dennis frowned. “Good. That’s what I told ’em, an’ I wouldn’t want to be made a liar. So long, Mr. Letts.”
“So long, Chief Silva.”
Dennis sat there for some time, just staring down at the cove, after Alan and his small escort left. A big copper-colored beetle landed noisily in front of him and marched purposefully toward his bare foot. He’d removed his half-rotten boondockers to let his pale, peeling feet breathe. “Purty bugs is always the most dangerous,” he muttered to himself, paraphrasing or warping something Courtney Bradford told him once. “I guess the same goes for broads. Course, I think he was tellin’ me not to eat the purty ones—like he ever ate a bug! Most bad, stingin’ bugs I ever saw was ugly as hell.” He picked up a stick and flicked the beetle away. “No sense takin’ chances. Bugger had some ugly choppers!”
Suddenly, Pam Cross plopped down beside him on the sandy rise. He’d heard her approach.
“Who were you talking to?” she asked.
“Just a bug.”
“What did he have to say for himself?”
“Not much.”
Pam waited a few minutes, but when Silva said nothing more, she sighed. “So,” she said expectantly.
“So what?”
“We gonna keep bein’ mad at each other? I thought we got things sorted out that night in the tree, but we hardly even talked after that.”
“I ain’t mad.”
Pam’s face turned stormy. “Well I am, damn it!”
Dennis nodded. “I knew that. That’s why I kept my distance.”
“But . . .” Pam picked up her own stick and slapped the sand in frustration. “But I wasn’t mad then! I got mad again because you froze me out!”
“What the hell was I s’posed to do?” Silva countered, exasperated. “This trip wasn’t exactly a stroll down a nature trail, where we could cuddle up in our hammock bower ever’ night after a ro-mantic hike!” He scratched his beard. “Cooties, I’ll bet,” he murmured, then continued. “Look, I’ll admit I kinda hoped we’d patched things up, but I ain’t much of a cuddler when I’m in a fight—an’ we been in one ever since that super lizard nearly got us! That was my fault,” he conceded, “but it sorted me out an’ put me back in ‘fight gear,’ where I should’a been all along. You’re always shiftin’ me into neutral, doll, and we never would’a made it this far with me just revvin’ my motor.” He took a long breath. “I ain’t never told you that I was anything but what I am. Not only is there nothin’ I can do about it—there ain’t nothin’ I want to do about it! Even if I did, I can’t—won’t—right now. Don’t you get it?” He avoided looking at her because he knew her big eyes would melt him if he did. Instead, he churned on, making his point while he could. “Maybe, just maybe, I’m tolerably sweet on ya. But the only way we’ll ever get to keep anything goin’ between us is if you know, know, deep down, that I been me so long you can’t do anything about it. What’s more, you really shouldn’t even try. At least for a while. That’s just the way it is, sweetie, and the harder you try to make me somethin’ else, the more miserable you’ll be.”
Slowly, tentatively, Pam’s small arm snaked around Silva’s waist and she leaned against his shoulder. “I’ve been miserable ever since I met you,” she said softly. “But I guess it’s worse when I haven’t got you, because I’ve never been happier either. Sometimes.”
“You’re gonna get my cooties,” Silva warned. Pam held out a clump of her greasy, tangled hair and started laughing.
“Whut?”
“My lice can fight your lice. Winner take all.”