CHAPTER 9
////// First Fleet South
Diego Garcia
July 8, 1944
General Safir Maraan, commander of what remained of II Corps, and Queen Protector of the Island of B’mbaado, raced like a giddy youngling down the gangway from Big Sal to the newly built pier. She wore her usual silver-washed breastplate, black cloak, and leather armor, but today she was unusually stunning, with a radiant glow of joy. Waiting on the pier was a strange assortment of folk. The Lemurian commander of USS Respite Island (SPD-1) was there, as were Lieutenant (jg) Winston “Winny” Rominger, commanding Motor Torpedo Boat Squadron #1 (MTB-Ron-1), Major Alistair Jindal of the Imperial Marines, and Captain Risa-Sab-At. Standing a little to the side were two men, one quite elderly, and both in the dark woolen uniforms of the Imperial German Navy. Beside them was a pepper-blond, bearded man wearing a bronze cuirass, plaited leather kilt, and polished bronze greaves. With him was yet another man, apparently Japanese, dressed similarly to the first two men. Also waiting were two very short Lemurians wearing almost nothing, and blinking with a mixture of anticipation and deep concern. None of those had Safir’s attention at present, however. She had eyes only for a broad-shouldered, brindle-furred ’Cat in the immaculate dress of a Lieutenant Colonel of Lemurian/American Marines, standing close beside Risa-Sab-At. The ’Cat swept his dented but freshly painted “doughboy” helmet from his head and bowed deeply as Safir approached, but amid raucous hoots and cries of approval thundering down from Big Sal, Safir Maraan tightly embraced him.
“Oh Chack,” she practically purred. “I have missed you so! Through all our battles, so far apart, I have begged the Maker for this moment with every breath!”
“As have I, my love,” Chack-Sab-At replied softly. Suddenly aware of the circumstances again, he stiffened slightly. “I mean General Maraan—Your Highness. . . .”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Safir admonished, nuzzling him and lightly touching his fur with the tip of her tongue. “To you, I shall always be simply ‘Safir’!”
“I will remember that when you give me orders!” He laughed. “You outrank me!”
Safir made a throwing-away gesture. “Even if that is true, we have always been equals in battle.” She snorted. “And besides, you have an independent command!”
“Subject to your orders, my love,” Chack reminded with a toothy grin. “Not that I mind.” He stepped back. Even while this long-delayed reunion was taking place, others had descended the gangway of the great ship. Keje escorted Sandra and her former Imperial “steward,” Diania, down the long ramp, closely followed by an ecstatic Courtney Bradford, who gaped all around, his head jerking this way and that like a turkey. He saw the great, newly refloated liner, Amerika, with her bizarre, but highly ornamental paintwork. New docks were everywhere, as well as several large storehouses. But beyond all that was the lush tropical jungle he couldn’t wait to explore—not to mention the natives he was eager to observe. Adar descended the ramp next, dressed in his flowing High Sky Priest’s robe. He was attended only by Captain Atlaan-Fas, and Salissa’s COFO, Jis-Tikkar, or “Tikker.” No Marine guards accompanied them. Chack had plenty of those on the pier, and there was no doubt they were among friends. Chack saluted the new arrivals, and after they returned the salute, Adar, Keje, Sandra, and even Courtney embraced the young Marine.
“My heart swells with gladness at the sight of you, Colonel Chack!” Adar said. “And I am so proud of your accomplishments here! I regret it has taken us so long to arrive.”
“You had battles,” Chack said simply. No other explanation was necessary. “I am only glad that they ended well enough that you could join me now.” He waved to the others close by on the pier. “Excuse me, but I think you know Lieuten-aant Rominger? Then allow me to present Kap-i-taan Aadler Von Melhausen, commander of SMS Ameri-kaa—also known to the Republic of Real People as the War Palace.” Von Melhausen saluted and bowed very low with a briskness that belied his apparent frailty. “The large, dark-bearded man is Kap-i-taan Leut-naant Becker Laange, Kap-i-taan Von Melhausen’s executive officer.” Lange saluted and bowed as well. “Lef-ten-aant Doocy Meek commands Ameri-kaa’s, ah, ‘Maa-rines,’ though all the Republic’s military persons are referred to as ‘legionaries.’” Meek saluted sharply, palm out. Chack nodded at the Japanese man. “And as I’m sure you have guessed, this is Lieuten-aant Toryu Miyata, late of the Jaapan-ese Imperial Navy Battle Cruiser, Amaagi. It is he more than any other that brought us together with our new friends from the Republic—and has, perhaps, given our current mission its greatest chance for success.”
Miyata bowed low. He knew these people had no reason to love him; he’d been aboard Amagi when she savaged their city of Baalkpan, after all. When he rose to face them, however, he was surprised—and gratified—to see the returned bows of greeting.
“Finally,” Chack continued, “I must present our hosts.” He flicked his ears respectfully at the two short ’Cats. “These, Pukaa and Sikaa, are sons of the High Chief that rules this land and has nobly joined our cause against the Ancient Enemy. They are not warriors,” he reminded, stressing his previous recommendation that they never be used as such. They were simple people, almost like younglings, and Chack considered it his duty to protect them as much as possible from the horrors of this war. “But they have graciously allowed us to use their land to stage troops and supplies for the pending operation.” He looked specifically at Adar. “I’m sure, once you get to know them, you will agree that their contribution to the cause has been sufficiently generous.”
“No doubt,” Adar said, closely studying the natives. He and Courtney had so much to learn from them! But he suspected Chack’s assessment was accurate.
“We . . . good you here,” Pukaa managed. “Happy us! Meet gone cousins. Happy us!”
“Oh! They’ve learned to speak!” Courtney chortled. “That will make communicating with them much, much easier than I feared!”
Adar blinked exaggerated patience, which caused a few chuckles. “It is indeed convenient that they have learned to make themselves understood by us. We must make an equal effort to learn their doubtless ancient and very rich dialect,” Adar said dryly. He’d already been informed that the language spoken by the people of Diego Garcia, or “Laa-Laanti” as they called it, was . . . similar to that used by most allied Lemurians. The primary difference was syntax and a severely garbled pronunciation of common words. He was sure communication would swiftly grow easier. Looking at one of the natives, he blinked sincerity. “Thank you, ah, Pukaa. We will try to disrupt the lives of your people here as little as possible, and your help in the cause of defeating our ancient foe shall never be forgotten!”
Pukaa blinked and looked at his brother. Finally, he waved his arms. “Happy us!” he said again.
The little tree lizard, Petey, had made himself as small behind Sandra’s neck as he could till now, when he finally peered out from under her sandy brown hair beside her right ear. “Happy us,” he repeated softly; then more insistently he crowed, “Eat?”
“We’ll eat soon enough, you gluttonous thing,” Sandra assured, patting the reptilian head. She waved out to sea. “Captain Reddy will bring Walker in as soon as he’s scouted around the island.” She frowned. “He’s been a little concerned about an undersea contact they made several days ago as well.”
“Yes,” Keje agreed, troubled. He looked at Respite Island’s captain. “We’ll have to bring all our screen in, eventually. Is yours sufficient to guard against the approach of . . . unexpected visitors?”
“Indeed, Ahd-mi-raal. I will see to it.”
“Good. Then I propose we adjourn to a more comfortable setting. We have much to discuss, but it will wait until Cap-i-taan Reddy joins us with his officers.”
* * *
Adar strode into Salissa’s admiral’s quarters and everyone rose to attention. He took a long breath and sighed. “Please, be seated!” Aside to Keje as he joined him at the long, broad table he murmured, “I shall never grow accustomed to this! Everyone popping up and standing like wooden carvings whenever I enter a chamber. It is embarrassing!”
“You are chairman of the Grand Alliance,” Keje said simply with a smile.
“In name only, at present. Mr. Letts stands as such in my stead at Baalkpan, more ably than I as well, I am sure. Perhaps the people there will recognize that and officially acclaim him chairman in my absence, particularly if the convention to form a true union of the allied powers is successful!”
Keje looked at Adar and blinked unease. Not for the first time, he suspected that more than banter lay beneath his friend’s words. “We could do worse,” Keje probed.
“Indeed.” Adar looked and saw Captain Reddy still standing, Sandra at his side, and smiled to himself. Safir Maraan was sitting with Chack, and even Chief Bosun Fitzhugh Gray was sitting next to the young—exotically beautiful, for a human, he understood—Diania. The girl was only a fraction of Gray’s age, but that wasn’t an issue among Lemurians. He wondered why it seemed to bother Gray so much. He mentally shook his head. He was happy for them all, pleased by every reunion their voyage had made possible. He chuckled inwardly. All except one, perhaps, and not because he disapproved, but because their new friends from the Republic of Real People evidently cherished rather strict taboos concerning certain fraternizations between humans and Lemurians. He’d never thought of . . . whatever existed between Dennis Silva and Risa-Sab-At as anything other than amusing, but Von Melhausen and Becher Lange in particular had been horrified to see the way Silva and Risa embraced when they met. Some of Greg Garrett’s reports hinted there were even some kind of human/Lemurian hybrids living in the Republic, and Adar had to admit he’d never imagined such an . . . outcome was possible. He still didn’t, as far as Silva and Risa were concerned. He knew they were great friends, but they also gloried in “getting the goats” of others, whatever that meant. He sighed again. Besides, he also knew one of the least well-kept “secrets” in the Alliance: Dennis Silva and Nurse Pam Cross were practically betrothed.
Captain Reddy at least pretended to remain blissfully unaware of the situation, but if he was, he pretended very well. Adar had to wonder if Matt truly was that obtuse when it came to relationships of that sort. Most likely it was pretense, Adar decided. Matt needed Silva, and with Sandra traveling aboard Salissa, he wanted the next-best available physician on his ship. He couldn’t surrender Silva or Pam, but his precious regulations, not to mention his sense of duty and example, might be compromised if he officially recognized the affair.
As for Silva’s theatrically amorous reunion with Risa-Sab-At on the docks, Adar remained amused. In spite of her deep friendship with Risa, Pam was one female who would never allow such a spectacle as Silva and Risa performed to go unavenged if she thought it represented more than play. He looked at Matt. Captain Reddy, also aware of the sensibilities of their new friends, had been furious, however, and Adar wondered what punishment Silva would endure. “Yes, Cap-i-taan Reddy? You have a report?”
“Yes, Mr. Chairman,” Matt replied. “We steamed all around the island. Interesting place. Not like anything we expected from our old charts. We didn’t pick up anything unusual, though. Never have after that one anomalous contact, as a matter of fact, so it was probably nothing after all. But I wanted to make sure.”
“Thank you. I am relieved to hear it. Now, shall we dine? I know we have much to talk about, but let us enjoy this gathering for a time before we return our thoughts to war.” He nodded at Amerika’s elderly commander. “Kap-i-taan Von Melhausen has supplied a number of interesting delicacies from both here and his homeland for us to sample. Shall we?”
Reluctantly, Matt nodded and sat. He’d wanted to make his report, but he also wanted to apologize to the people of the Republic for Silva’s behavior. Adar hadn’t given him a chance, and he wondered why. Probably didn’t want to make a big deal of it, he thought. Besides, even Adar knows Silva’s too valuable to hang, and hanging’s about the only thing that might tone him down. All Matt could really do at present was restrict the maniac to the ship. Belatedly, he realized there’d been a time when he would’ve apologized—or said whatever he wanted to say—whether Adar shushed him or not, and he caught himself questioning what had changed. I have, of course, and so has Adar. I’m more comfortable letting him run the show, and he’s more confident doing it now. He shifted uneasily, grasping Sandra’s hand under the table. Her “distances” seemed to come in fits and starts, but tonight, everything appeared fine between them. Should I feel more comfortable, though? he asked himself, watching Adar more closely. He’d always tried to defer to the “civilian” authorities—as much as possible, and as much as their understanding of the situation allowed—ever since they came to this world. He did not want to be a king! He was beginning to worry, however, that he might have . . . abdicated a measure of responsibility.
Adar wanted sole strategic responsibility for the conduct of the war. That was fine, and it was his duty as Chairman of the Grand Alliance. But his actual role was growing a bit more tactical than Matt felt easy with, and he suspected that was probably his own fault. Inwardly, he knew he practically yearned for less responsibility himself, after all they’d been through and lost. It simply hurt too much. But that never really works out, does it? he asked himself bitterly. The oldest rule in the book is that you can delegate authority, but never responsibility—not even to higher authority. He realized he’d been slowly doing exactly that—letting Adar “test his wings” a little too soon, and perhaps a bit too thoroughly. He hadn’t encouraged it, exactly, but he hadn’t actively discouraged it either. He’d warned, but that wasn’t really enough, especially where this operation was concerned. The “prize,” to go for the whole enchilada, had to be awfully tempting—particularly for Adar. He sighed inwardly, wondering if he was worrying about nothing—and if there was anything he could do about it now, even if he wasn’t.
* * *
Dennis Silva sat on the director’s “bicycle” seat of the number two gun atop the amidships platform. The big 4"-50 was secured fore and aft, and he had an unobstructed view to port, past the safety chains. Across the water, Big Sal was outwardly dark, despite the confab underway aboard. Every ship in the vicinity was dark, but that didn’t mean they were invisible. The stars shone brightly, and the horizon was ruddy with the gleam of a nearly full moon preparing to rise above the sea. More light flickered from the interior of the jungle isle, from native fires near the lagoon, no doubt, and it served to silhouette the ships even further. Silva could see all of them quite well—as would any lurking spectator.
The white wakes of Winny Rominger’s torpedo boats crossed the waves to seaward. Irvin Laumer had been given command of a two-boat section, and was getting the hang of the new craft. Several DDs cruised even farther out to sea, but Silva wasn’t sure how much good any of them would be if there really was a pigboat creeping around out there. Captain Reddy obviously didn’t know what to think of Horn’s supposed periscope sighting, but the screwy contact they’d investigated on the run down from Madras had left him cautious. Chances were, they’d left whatever it was far behind. But hell, Silva thought, fishing his tobacco pouch out of his pocket. I’m feelin’ cautious too, an’ I don’t even b’lieve there was a periscope! he fumed. But I was there when the numbskull spotted it, and dope that he is, Horn’s no idiot.
Silva trusted Horn far more than he’d ever admit, but the guy was a Marine—and not just any Marine! Silva had nothing against ’Cat Marines, and he considered Chack one of his very best friends. Besides, he figured he’d helped create the Marines on this world and you had to call them something. Let Marine ’Cats and Navy ’Cats have a fresh start here, like lions and lambs and such, he mused, then chuckled. Or maybe lions and tigers is a better comparison. But Horn was an old-world China Marine! It was the nature of whatever cosmos they were part of, wherever they were, that Silva and Horn should be contentious—at least for appearances’ sake. He shook some of the yellowish “tobacco” leaves from his pouch, the sugary flavoring meant to counteract the vile, waxy taste sticky on his fingers, and crammed the wad in his cheek.
As if summoned by his thoughts, Gunny Horn suddenly joined him by the gun, preceded by a fog of “PIG-cig” smoke.
“I was just thinkin’ about you,” Silva accused, as if Horn were directly responsible, and the very act might pollute his mind. “Think o’ the devil an’ up he pops—my ol’ granny prob’ly used to say.”
“Probably?” Horn asked with a grin around the smoldering butt between his lips.
“Never knew the dame,” Silva confessed, “but ain’t that what all grannies say?” He coughed. “Brung yer own fire an’ brimstone along too, I see. Damn, but I wish you’d quit smokin’ them ass-wipe paper rolls o’ loco weed. Smell like you stuffed rat pellets an’ roaches in them papers an’ lit ’em.”
“I didn’t roll them. They come from Baalkpan ready-made.” Horn took the smoke out and looked at it, before nodding at Isak Reuben, leaning on the rail below them next to the big freezer. Isak was smoking too. “And for all I know, those ‘Mice’ fellas, as you call them, might use that exact recipe. They are pretty awful.”
Silva stood and spat over the rail, the stream describing a solid, graceful arch. “You oughta take up a respectable, genteel, fireproof vice, like me. No smokin’ lamps to worry about, ash holes in your clothes—an’ why darken the ship against make-believe pigboats, then hop around like a buncha damn fireflies!” Even as he spoke, a match flared on the aft deckhouse, and he cursed. Matches were great, and it was good to have them again. They’d been a by-product of efforts to create friction primers and fuses. But the ’Cats, ordinarily very sensible when it came to open flames aboard any ship, thought they were practically magical and often played with them whether they smoked or not. That had to be watched and discouraged. He looked around. “Who’s got the deck? The Skipper’d throw a fit!” He raised his voice so it could be heard aft. “The next—anybody—who makes a light is on report!” He spat again. “Damn snipes. That’s them back there, I know it. Play with fire mor’n anybody aboard. Maybe we’ll see just how much they like it. I already got a score to settle with some of ’em,” he growled.
“What kind of score?” Horn asked.
“A sore score.” Silva glared at Horn in the dark. “Black teeth too, fer God’s sake,” he continued, as if his rant had never been interrupted. “Like you chew betel nuts all day. You’ll be sharpenin’ them scum columns into points, next.” He sniffed. “An’ o’ course you smell like smolderin’ rat pellets all the time.” Warming to his tirade, Silva put his hands on his hips, aping Spanky’s habitual pose. “You think wimmen crave snugglin’ with a giant rat turd? Not here, or in any world I ever been to.” He lowered his voice. “Which I figger the Asia Station counts for at least one. Alabama’s another, so I’m calculatin’ that wimmen would reject cavortin’ with rat turds on at least four different worlds.”
Horn laughed. “I won’t argue with that. Not a lot of dames aboard to impress, though.”
“A lot more than there ever used to be,” Silva argued, slightly aggrieved. “Which you’d know if you hadn’t missed the worst o’ the ‘Dame Famine,’” he accused. “’Cat gals’ve been with us since we met ’em, but now there’s a corny-copia o’ human broads scamperin’ all over the ship, compared to back then. Five of ’em, not countin’ Pam,” he stressed. Horn was one of the few who “officially” knew Pam and Silva remained sweet on each other. “An’ with only eighteen old-time destroyermen aboard,” Silva continued, “meanin’ them without tails an’ fur, why, that’s a downright momentous increase in proportionism if you ask me.”
“I didn’t know there were that many,” Horn mused.
“The other five, all of ’em, are fireroom snipes,” Dennis explained. “They’re ex-pat Impie gals, an’ hardly ever creep out on deck.” He furrowed the brow over his good eye. “You know? I bet Tabby recruits ’em down there, so there’ll always be somebody waggin’ sweaty boobs at Spanky when he goes below—just like she used to do. Drives him nuts! And now that she’s engineerin’ officer, there’s not much he can do about it.”
“She still s’eet on he,” Lawrence announced, padding up to join them, the claws on his feet scritching on the deckplates.
“Tabby’s sweet on the exec?” Horn demanded, staring at Lawrence.
“Yeah,” Silva confirmed. “Always has been. Ain’t natural,” he added piously.
Horn snorted. “Then what was that you were doin’ with that ’Cat gal—a Marine officer—when we touched at the pier this morning?”
“That’s Risa,” Silva said, as if that explained everything. “We was just funnin’, is all. We’re old pals.”
“Your fun got you restricted to the ship.”
Silva shrugged. “So?” He pointed at the dark shape of Big Sal. The moon was rising, and soon she’d be even more obvious against the dark jungle of the island. Too bad she’s too big for the lagoon the little munchkin cat-monkeys got here. “If I wasn’t here, I’d be over there listenin’ to the brass argue an’ bump their gums about all the stuff we already know about.” He cocked his head. “Some of it, anyway. An’ what’s the use? Nobody’s gonna attack the Skipper over there, an’ I thought Pam was gonna stay aboard here. . . .”
“So that’s it! You were hoping to spend some time with her!”
Silva thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Sure. Why not?”
“But she got called over to meet with the Skipper’s wife. Some kind of fleet medical powwow.”
“Yeah,” Silva grumped, then looked at Lawrence. “Hey, where’ve you been, anyway?”
“I’s looking at the ’ish Lanier caught.”
Earl didn’t just go for monster plesiosaurs; he dropped a line over the side whenever Walker anchored anywhere. Some of his catches were unusual to say the least, and a few had very nearly caught him. The thing he’d pulled aboard just before sunset actually seemed fairly straightforward for a change, even edible—at least at first glance. Perhaps the best way to describe it was as a kind of rainbow-colored flounder, since it had two eyes on the side of its head. What made it weird was that it wasn’t particularly flat, and it had two eyes on the other side of its head as well.
Silva rolled his own eye. “Yeah, that thing ain’t right. Booger has four eyes, an’ I only got one. I bet that’d come in handy, though, havin’ good depth perception in all directions.” He peered at Lawrence. “You could see other boogers comin’ at you better.”
“Still,” Horn prodded, “if you hadn’t gotten uninvited to the meeting on Big Sal, you’d know all the details about what we’re headed into.”
Silva looked at the tall Marine and grinned. “An’ then I could tell you.” He chuckled. “I’ll get another chance. The locals are throwin’ us a big ‘so long’ bash, though I can’t imagine where they’ll put everybody. We prob’ly got more sailors an’ Marines aboard these ships than there is folks livin’ on that whole island.” He paused, contemplative. “But the word is, that’s when Mr. Bradford’s gonna unwrap his big notion. His ‘theory of ever’thing’ he’s been workin’ on. That’s what I’m waitin’ to hear. As for the ‘details’ of ‘what we’re headed into’”—he spat again—“I already know mosta them.”
“So? Spill ’em.”
Silva’s grin widened. “Why, we’re gonna jump down the hole right in the Grik’s front parlor, kickin’ hell outa whatever yellow jacket nest we land on with both feet—an’ we’ll all be lucky to live through it. What other details do we need, you and me?” He ruffled Lawrence’s crest. “Or you, you fuzzy little salamander.”
Lawrence backed out of reach with a hiss, but seemed pleased by Silva’s confidence. Dennis raised his gaze slightly to watch a moonlit shape move away from the gathering where Lanier was filleting the strange fish beside the port 25-mm gun tub, just aft of the number two torpedo mount. He saw a cherry brighten as that man also leaned against a stanchion to stare out to sea, and realized he was smoking one of Isak’s vile cigarettes as well. “Or maybe, if you really want to know, you might just ask your ol’ buddy down there,” Silva grouched.
Horn followed his gaze. “Lance Corporal Miles?” he asked skeptically. “Why him? What would he know?” Ian Miles had been attached to Bernie Sandison in Experimental Ordnance after his arrival in Baalkpan with Horn, Herring, Conrad Diebel, and Leading Seaman Henry Stokes. Like many of the survivors of Mizuki Maru’s old-world mission as a slave-labor transport, he’d been given a job he seemed suited for. Stokes was running Allied Intel while Herring was away, and Diebel was flying P-40s for Ben Mallory in Indiaa. After his adventures with Silva in Borno, Gunnery Sergeant Horn was basically assigned to him in Sonny Campeti’s gunnery division (which seemed appropriate). He was still a Marine, of course, but not considered part of Walker’s small Marine contingent. Likewise, Lance Corporal Miles remained under Sandison’s authority, though some suspected he still truly answered only to Commander Simon Herring.
“Why don’t you ask him?” Dennis repeated. “He’s your pal, an’ he’s prob’ly oozin’ all sorts o’ dope Herring’s fed him.”
Horn stared at the other Marine thoughtfully for a moment. He knew Miles and Herring had remained close after their ordeal together, closer than one might expect considering their wildly divergent attitudes toward rank. “Miles is a good Marine,” he defended, “and a good guy to have at your back . . . in the situation we were in after the Philippines fell.” He shrugged. “Sure, he had a chip on his shoulder in China. Played the sea lawyer too, sometimes. But he straightened up. Hell, you know the type. You were much the same yourself.”
“I never was the type to toady up to a tin Tojo type like Herring,” Silva stated flatly, and Horn frowned. He had to admit Silva had a point. Gunny Horn had admired Commander Herring while they were in the hands of the Japanese, but he’d been disappointed by the way Herring tried to throw his weight around after they joined the Grand Alliance here. Sure, he was chief of strategic intelligence now, along to see the Grik “elephant” for himself. But after the hellacious fight with Kurokawa’s battlewagons, he did seem to be trying to become a “real, live” naval officer at last. He’d also clearly changed his opinion of Captain Reddy, and completely embraced the scheme to hit the Grik where they lived.
“Commander Herring’s not like that now,” Horn defended.
“No? Then how come him an’ a lowly shoestring corporal like Miles is always promenadin’ our decks an jawin’ about stuff—an’ clammin’ up whenever I . . . whenever anybody wanders by?”
“Maybe they don’t like it when fellas spy on them,” Horn retorted, “or make such a fuss about them being pals. Neither one is easy to be friends with; trust me, I was with them long enough.” He took a long drag on his PIG-cig and coughed.
Silva’s eye widened. “Say, you don’t s’pose they’re special pals, do ya?”
Horn glared at him. “Hell no! What’s the matter with you?”
Silva rolled his eye. “Just a thought. An’ dis-gustin’ as that notion is, it’d worry me less than the one I’m really stuck on.”
“And what’s that?”
“Those two are up to somethin’,” Silva stated firmly. “Somethin’ the Skipper won’t like.”