The Shark Boats, page 22
“No more,” Eddie agreed solemnly. “This is some good shit, Major. You want a chug?”
Reiner held up the beer Calina had given him.
“I’m fine, Lieutenant. You just be careful with that drinking. We’ll probably be in action tomorrow.”
“Oh?” asked Cromwell.
“The Gap, probably.”
“I thought we were going to be protecting the convoy routes.”
“I suppose Command thought guys like us could be put to better use where the real action is,” Reiner said.
A part of his mind rebelled against giving away that information to a potential traitor. All of his officers were potential traitors. Even Grey and deKuyper. Even Calina. All of his men, too. Maybe Pulli, Pieter, Tex, Gascay or Harris was the one to be somehow feeding Nick critical information.
I don’t want to tell anyone anything.
“Good,” said Cromwell.
“You sure I can only have this bottle?” Kaye asked his friend.
“I’m sure,” Cromwell said firmly, as Reiner turned away.
*
“I see one of your officers is a countryman of mine,” said Turner to Reiner at the bar.
“I suppose he is,” said Reiner. “You talk with him?”
“I was going to. He seemed to turn away when he saw me coming. Figured if he wanted to discuss the Marlins’ playoff chances, he’d know where I was.”
Reiner sipped his beer.
“Interesting crew you have here,” Turner said. “Unconventional.”
“They’re good men.” Except for one of them. And I don’t know who he is. “They get the job done.”
“Double scotch,” Turner told the bartender.
“Make that two,” said Reiner, draining the last of his beer. He pulled out a wad of money.
“Fine cigar,” said Turner as the bartender, a native, poured the drinks.
“Emmanuel Goldstein gave us some. I still have a couple of boxes in my cabin. They’re good for bribing people.”
“Emmanuel Goldstein, huh? Right, you’ve met him, haven’t you? Saved his ass.”
“So they say,” Reiner said. He sipped his Scotch. The taste was an unpleasant surprise; this was low-grade crap. He took another sip anyway.
Turner threw his drink back and downed it in one gulp.
“Been talking to some people,” the Centralian said. “You know your man Goldstein’s in Angle right now? Making a propaganda film.”
I wouldn’t mind seeing him again. I liked Goldstein.
“You know where?”
“I can probably show you,” said Turner.
“Let’s go for a walk.”
Suddenly, the conversation in the room flickered out. Reiner turned towards the entrance as Calina and others began to applaud.
Emmanuel Goldstein, followed by Sarah Lewis and a thin civilian in his fifties, had come into the mess. Smiling slightly, he looked around and spotted Reiner. Began to walk over to him.
“Major Reiner,” the former smuggler said.
“Mr. Goldstein,” said Reiner. “We were just talking about you.”
“Ah, you heard? I heard you were in town. Thought I’d drop by to see some of my men.”
Calina was hanging over his shoulder.
“Most of them are enlisted, of course,” Reiner said. “Not allowed into the officers’ mess.”
“There’s a hotel bar,” said Goldstein. “I know the owner. Why don’t you round them up and we can go there.”
“All of us?” Eddie Kaye asked.
“Everyone here,” said Goldstein. “The drinks are on me.”
The applause was thunderous.
*
The hotel was Angle’s finest, although that wasn’t really saying much. The two dozen or so Navy officers who’d come from the mess were drinking just as heavily as the officers and enlisteds of Squadron Ten. This place had managed to acquire, or preserve, a stock of quality pre-war alcohol. Someone had found a dozen nurses, and there was enthusiastic dancing going in a cleared dining area. Other men were dancing with each other, to the tune of some lively string and piano records. It was a good party.
“Emmanuel, you’re a confidante of guys like Macquarie,” said Reiner. Pulling back on his seventh or eighth drink, a much better-quality brand of scotch than the piss they'd had in the officers’ mess. “Know anyone here?”
“I might,” said Goldstein. He wasn’t drinking. So far as Reiner could see, he was the only person in the room not to be.
“What’s the real situation here in the Uphams? Have we got a chance at holding the bastards, or is it just another delaying action?”
“We’ve got a chance for as long as people like you believe we have a chance,” said Goldstein.
“That doesn’t answer my question. An hour ago I spoke with a guy who said they were preparing for Angle itself to come under attack. That’s not a good prognosis, damnit!”
“It’s a simple precaution,” said Goldstein. “I’m not allowed to tell you much more than that, but let me ask you a question: would we be reinforcing West Upham with new divisions if we seriously expected the place to be cut off and wiped out?”
Sarah Lewis came over. She was wearing a black skirt and heels, and a white sleeveless blouse of thin cotton.
“Dance with me, Jack?”
*
Several dances later, Reiner led Lewis to the bar. He hadn’t planned to drink any further, but the reporter ordered a bottle of the place’s best red wine.
“I’ll be offended if you don’t help me with this, Jack,” she said. “You don’t want to offend a woman, do you?”
She shook her hips. Reiner couldn’t help noticing the way her breasts moved under the thin blouse. Yes, she looked very womanly.
“Of course I can’t,” he said. He filled the two fine crystal glasses
Lewis raised hers.
“To Emmanuel Goldstein,” she said, as they clinked. “He’s a hell of a propagandist, you know.”
“How’d you get attached to him?”
“He needed a writer. I can write.”
“Yes, you can,” Reiner said. “Thanks for that article on me. It got me saddled with guys like that.”
He took a gulp of the wine and gestured with the glass at Eddie Kaye, who’d apparently forgotten his promise to stop at one bottle. He was drinking shots with Turner, animatedly discussing something.
“Eddie Kaye? You should be honored. If he’s anything like his older brother…”
“Jake Francis, you mean?”
“Yeah. He’s up for the Navy Medal, you know. Swam three miles to rescue one of his wounded men in the Gap.”
“Eddie drinks too much. But he’s not a bad soldier. Especially for a guy who doesn’t think we should be fighting to begin with.”
Hmm, maybe I should keep him away from Turner. He might be giving the wrong impression.
“Bad soldiers don’t win the Silver Cross,” Lewis said.
Reiner emptied his glass. Lewis drained hers, took the bottle and refilled them.
“Doesn’t take a good soldier to win the Star,” said Reiner. He gestured at himself.
“Don’t be silly. You’re a great soldier. And a hell of a man.”
“I’m a hell of a trader. I wish this fucking war was over. I hate being a soldier.”
Oh, shit, he realized the moment his words had left his mouth. I’ve had far too much.
“That’s off the record,” he added hastily.
“Of course it’s off the record,” Lewis smiled. “But why do you hate being a soldier?”
“I hate this war. One weekend a month, two weeks a year – that’s one thing. Going out in this bloody heat to kill people and risk my guys’ lives – risk my own life. It’s not what I do. It’s not what I’m good at.”
“You seem pretty damn good at it,” Lewis said. She took a long sip of her wine.
“You should see me on the futures desk.”
“You could have used your hero-connections to get an assignment back in logistics or something,” she pointed out.
“That’d be irresponsible and cowardly. I like my men. deKuyper might do as good a job as I. He might not. It’s why I want this war to end. Tomorrow.”
“Always tomorrow,” Lewis laughed.
Clearly, Reiner noticed, this wine isn’t her first drink of the evening, either.
“There might always be tomorrow,” she continued. “We’re at war, and there might not be. Let’s look at the facts at hand: now’s tonight. Walk me home, will you? It’s only a couple of blocks.”
*
On the street outside, Lewis stepped out of her heels. As she squatted to pick them up, she deliberately extended a long, bare leg sideways.
Oh, God. I’ve had far too many drinks for this kind of thing to work.
“You might not want to be a soldier,” Lewis said. “But you’re a good one. It’s a shame. I always wanted to be a war correspondent, personally.”
Reiner took her free left hand.
“You’re not bad at it. But you’ve had too much to drink, though. We both have.”
They walked down the dark street, which even at half past three in the morning wasn’t particularly quiet. Passing soldiers and sailors, Reiner was of mixed feelings to notice, eyed Lewis as they went by.
“Maybe. In vino veritas, Major. I see that’s true for you.”
“Maybe.”
Lewis suddenly stopped. Turned and kissed Reiner. He returned the kiss.
“Let’s make this entire night off the record, shall we?” she said, breaking away. “But we’ll keep reprint rights. I’m going to be here in Angle with Goldstein for a month. You’re based out of here indefinitely, Grey said. There could be some great serial articles.”
Reiner was intensely conscious of the pressure of her breasts against his uniform.
“Not tonight. I’ve had too much. Does your offer come with a renew option?”
She smiled.
“I’ve never been good with money. What’s that?”
Reiner took her hand and they resumed walking.
“It means I’d love to see you again. When I’m more capable. And when we’re both sober. I don’t want you to do anything you might regret.”
“I’m not as drunk as you might think,” Lewis said. They stopped outside a small hotel, its front door guarded by a pair of walking-wounded soldiers who adjusted themselves to look at her. “This is where I’m staying. Are you sure you don’t want to come in?”
“We’re going out tomorrow.”
“When do you come back?”
“God knows. When we’re out of fuel, I guess. That probably won’t be long.”
Lewis kissed him briefly on the mouth.
“I’ll be waiting.”
Chapter Fourteen
“We call it the Cajamarca Express,” the young Navy lieutenant said. He was thin and tanned and filthy from too long out in the Gap. “Comes through almost every night – you can practically time your watch by it.”
“Bringing supplies and reinforcements to their beachheads on Upham?” asked deKuyper. They were standing on the deck of the huge supply tender New Michigan City. Around them were a dozen escort-class ships, cruisers and destroyers. Reiner’s wasn’t the only MTB squadron in the vicinity.
“Yeah,” said the lieutenant. “And bombarding the living shit out of our shoreside defenses. There’s fighting almost every night. Most days, too.”
“Looks like you’ve been out here for a while.”
“No time to go back. They send us resupply on tenders like this one. Can’t spare anyone. It’s good to see you here, by the way, Major. We’ve been shorthanded.”
Like another squadron is going to make a huge difference, thought Reiner. He was acutely conscious of how healthy he and his men were compared to everyone he’d seen so far in the Gap. The guys on board the New Michigan City were as bad as the men on Karna. Weatherbeaten and prematurely aged.
“Come down into the briefing room, sir,” the lieutenant said. “Commander Graaf wants to see you.”
Graaf was a short, black-haired man who looked fifty. Under his beaked nose was a thick coating of black stubble.
“Major Reiner. Captain deKuyper. Good to have you here. God only knows we need reinforcements.”
“Good to be here,” said Reiner without meaning a word of it.
“I trust Lieutenant Steele’s given some idea of how things are out here,” said Graaf.
“Some idea. It looks like Karna.”
“It’s as bad, and more important. The PNA depends on the Cajamarca Express. Without it, their troops attacking us on West Upham don’t get resupply and they don’t get fire support and they don’t get reinforcements. This is the most critical naval theater of the war at present, and they’re woefully undersupplying us.”
“I hear we’re stretched thin everywhere, sir.”
Graaf sighed.
“Everywhere and then some. But you’d think they’d send a little more here.”
He thumbed a battered pack of cigarettes out of the front pocket of his fatigues. Without offering the pack to Reiner or deKuyper, he took one out and lit it.
“Of course,” he went on, “I suppose every group and fleet commander’s saying that about their area of operations. If we didn’t have West protecting our convoy route, there’d be no point in our being here to begin with. Anyway. We’re on interdiction. You ever been involved with interdiction before?”
“It happened to me,” said Reiner.
“Well, you’ll be on the other end of it now. Every Nick barge we sink is a few hundred men our boys on the ground won’t have to fight. Every transport is a few thousand, or a couple dozen tanks. Or supplies that they’ll miss. We’re making a difference – or perhaps it’s better to say that it’d be even worse for the Army if we weren’t here. Nick gets enough shit through despite our best efforts.”
“Well, we should be able to help,” said Reiner. “My guys know what we’re doing.”
“Talk with some of the other commanders,” Graaf said. “They’ll tell you what it’s like out here. It’s rough. But critical. Oh, and get your guys ready.”
“Oh?”
“The Cajamarca Express runs every night. Tonight’s no exception.”
*
Rear-Admiral Schlager stood on the flag bridge of the Cruysburg, reading through the intelligence briefing. Airborne reconnaissance showed that Cajamarca was preparing an extra-special treat for tonight. They’d gotten reinforcements.
They need reinforcements on Upham, Schlager thought. Both sides did, of course, but Schlager was thinking of the PNA in particular. His chief of staff had heard a reliable rumor that a major counterattack was in the making. One intended to kick the PNA completely off West Upham.
The PNA might have heard the same rumor. The less they had to fight that counterattack, the better. The next few days would be critical. The PNA reinforcements couldn’t have arrived at a better time for them.
Or a worse time for us.
“Sir, pickets report they’re coming down the strait,” an aide reported.
“Any estimate on strength?”
“Two battleships. Easily half a dozen cruisers. Probably three times that many destroyers. Thirty to forty transports, we think. Over a hundred barges and MTBs.”
They’re definitely coming down in force, thought Schlager.
“Pickets withdrawn?”
“Yessir. Lieutenant-Commander Nuys got his squadron the hell out of there.”
Two battleships and half a dozen cruisers, Schlager thought. His ships were severely outgunned. But they had to make an attempt at a troop movement of that size. Even if it did mean losing precious ships.
“Pass the word to move out,” said Schlager. “We have to try.”
*
“We’re going to go in first and fast,” said Commander Graaf to his five squadron commanders over the group frequency. “We hit whatever we can, while the bigger ships engage. We’re focusing on the transports, the freighters and the barges. Losses are acceptable if we can cause enough damage. Don’t waste torpedoes on the barges. You boys know what to do.”
“Roger. Ten out,” said Reiner. He turned to the other radio, which was tuned to squadron frequency, and relayed the group commander’s instructions on to his boat captains. There was a chorus of assents.
“I’ve heard about the Gap,” said Turner as they moved into formation. The five MTB squadrons were going to be moving ahead of the larger ships, each squadron in fingers-four – or --three – formation. Reiner’s squadron was second from the left, on the south.
The night was dark and overcast. A light wind was coming in from the west, ahead of them, and the sea was choppy. Reiner stood nervously in the Isabella’s cockpit as they moved forwards. Everyone on the boat, except Turner, seemed tense.
The Centralian observer was either excited or doing a good job pretending to be. He stepped back and forth with a notepad in his hand, grinning slightly. He didn’t appear to be writing anything down.
Is he the traitor?
No, that was absurd. Turner hadn’t been around for the Quintillian mission, which had been the big one.
What if the traitor’s already somehow told the Norks that we’re on the way in to go after tonight’s convoy?
No, he doesn’t need to do that. Cajamarca knows we’re coming.
That was theoretically some kind of consolation. It didn’t help in the slightest.
*
Moving forwards through the night, at a steady eighteen knots so as not to outpace the cruisers behind them. The clouds limited visibility to less than a hundred yards. Reiner could see the boats of his squadron, but not the neighboring ones. In fact, it was hard to make out Schaffer’s, on the pinkie finger of the formation.
Radio silence. Nick had to know they were coming, but there was no point telling them exactly when. Tactical surprise was still possible.
The wind gained strength, and a few droplets of rain started to fall. It felt as though a full-blown storm was brewing.
And won’t that be great for the bastards, thought Reiner, his knuckles white on the handrail.
