Part 31 (1/2)

After George remarked on that, Dalby looked at him-looked through him, really. ”You'd sooner be torpedoed?”

”Got a better chance against a sub than we would against airplanes,” George said stubbornly. Then he wondered if that was true. His father hadn't had any chance against a submarine. But he got sucker-punched after the war was over. We'd be on our toes. But he got sucker-punched after the war was over. We'd be on our toes.

Whenever George was on deck, he kept an eye peeled for periscopes. He also looked for the thin, pale exhaust from a submersible's diesel engine. What with the Townsend Townsend's hydrophone gear, all that was probably wasted effort. He didn't care, not even a little bit. He did it anyhow. He noticed he was far from the only one who did.

He wasn't on deck when general quarters sounded. He was rinsing off in the shower. He threw on his skivvies and ran for his gun with the rest of his clothes, including his shoes, under his arm.

n.o.body laughed, or not very much. n.o.body who'd been in the Navy longer than a few weeks hadn't been caught the same way. He dressed at his post. His hair was still wet. It dripped in his face and down his back. He would have minded that much more in the North Atlantic in December than he did here.

”Now hear this!” The exec's voice crackled out of the loudspeakers. ”We've found us a submarine, and we are going to prosecute the son of a b.i.t.c.h.”

An excited buzz ran through the sailors. George looked enviously up toward the depth-charge launchers near the destroyer's bow. Their crews were the ones who'd have the fun of dropping things on the j.a.ps' heads.

”Don't go to sleep, now,” Fremont Dalby warned. ”If those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds surface, we're the ones who'll fill 'em full of holes.” He set a hand on one of the 40mm's twin barrels. The quick-firing gun made an admirable can opener.

The Townsend Townsend swung to port. Down under the surface, a submersible was no doubt maneuvering, too. It could have been cat-and-mouse, but the mouse here had almost as good a chance as the cat. The swung to port. Down under the surface, a submersible was no doubt maneuvering, too. It could have been cat-and-mouse, but the mouse here had almost as good a chance as the cat. The Townsend Townsend's advantage was speed, the sub's stealth. Where was that boat?

They must have thought they knew, for depth charges flew from the launchers and splashed into the Pacific. George waited, bracing himself. When the ashcans burst, it was like a kick in the a.s.s from an elephant. The Townsend Townsend's bow lifted, then slammed back down.

More charges arced through the air. Some would be set for a depth a little less than the hydrophone operator thought accurate, some for a little more. With luck, the submersible wouldn't get away. With luck . . .

”Oil! Oil!” somebody yelled. His voice cracked the second time he said it.

”Could be a trick,” Fritz Gustafson said. George nodded. A canny sub skipper would deliberately release oil and air bubbles to try to fool his tormentors into thinking they'd smashed him. Then he could slink away or strike back as he got the chance.

Not this time, though. ”Coming up!” screamed somebody near the bow. ”Motherf.u.c.ker's coming up!”

Like a breaching whale but far bigger, the j.a.panese submarine surfaced. She might not have been able to stay down anymore, but she still showed fight. Men tumbled out of her conning tower and ran for the deck guns. The odds against them were long-a destroyer vastly outgunned a submersible-but they had a chance. If they could hurt the Townsend Townsend badly enough, they might yet get away. badly enough, they might yet get away.

But the destroyer's guns were already manned and ready. George wasn't sure if his weapon was the very first to start blazing away, but it was among the first. Tracers walked across the water toward the sub less than a mile away. They were close enough to the target to let him see chunks of metal fly when sh.e.l.ls slammed into the side of the boat and the conning tower. One of the sh.e.l.ls. .h.i.t a j.a.panese sailor amids.h.i.+ps. He exploded into red mist. There were worse ways to go; he must have died before he knew it.

The j.a.ps got off a few shots. One of them hit near the Townsend Townsend's bow, just aft of the ashcan launchers. George heard shrieks through the din of gunfire. But the sub was in over its head. Its guns were out in the open and unprotected, and the American 40mms and machine guns picked off the crews in nothing flat. When the destroyer's main armament started taking bites out of the sub's hull, it quickly sank. It kept firing as long as it could. The crew had guts-no way around that.

A few men still bobbed in the water after the submersible went down. The Townsend Townsend steered toward them and threw lines and life rings into the water. The j.a.panese sailors stubbornly refused to take them. A couple of sailors deliberately sank when lines came near. Others shook defiant fists at the s.h.i.+p that had sunk their sub. They shouted what had to be insults in their own language. steered toward them and threw lines and life rings into the water. The j.a.panese sailors stubbornly refused to take them. A couple of sailors deliberately sank when lines came near. Others shook defiant fists at the s.h.i.+p that had sunk their sub. They shouted what had to be insults in their own language.

”They're crazy,” George said. ”If that was me, I'd be up on this deck and down on my knees thanking G.o.d they'd rescued me instead of shooting me or leaving me for shark bait or just to drown.”

”j.a.ps aren't like that,” Dalby said. ”Bunch of crazy monkeys, if you want to know what I think.”

”They figure being a POW is the worst thing in the world,” Fritz Gustafson said. ”Far as they're concerned, dying's better.”

”Like I said-crazy,” Dalby said.

”Nasty, too.” Gustafson was, for him, in a talky mood. ”Don't let 'em catch you. If you're a POW, they figure you're in disgrace. Anything goes, near enough.”

”How do you know that?” George asked.

The loader shrugged. ”You hear stuff, is all.”

One of the last j.a.panese sailors afloat spat seawater up at the Townsend. Townsend. He made gestures that probably meant the same as giving her the finger. The s.h.i.+p took the perfect revenge: she sailed away. The sailors whooped and cheered. ”I think you're right, Chief,” George said. ”They He made gestures that probably meant the same as giving her the finger. The s.h.i.+p took the perfect revenge: she sailed away. The sailors whooped and cheered. ”I think you're right, Chief,” George said. ”They are are crazy.” crazy.”

”Told you so,” Fremont Dalby said smugly. ”I just wish they weren't so G.o.dd.a.m.n tough, that's all.”

Jefferson Pinkard inspected his dress grays in the mirror. He looked pretty G.o.dd.a.m.n sharp, if he did say so himself. The three wreathed silver stars on either side of his collar gleamed and sparkled. The way he'd polished them, they couldn't very well do anything else. His silver belt buckle shone, too. So did the black leather of his belt and boots.

When he got married the first time, back before the Great War, he'd done it in a rented tailcoat. He'd thought he was hot stuff, then. Maybe he'd even been right. His belly hadn't bulged over his belt in those days, anyhow.

He scowled as the memory came back. Emily'd been hot stuff in those days, too. Too G.o.dd.a.m.n hot, it turned out. ”Little wh.o.r.e,” he growled. She hadn't wanted to wait till he got back from the trenches. She'd spread it around, starting with his best friend. He remembered walking in after he got a leave he hadn't told her about ahead of time, walking in and . . .

Angrily, he turned away from the mirror. Then, feeling foolish, he had to turn back to get his hat-almost a Stetson, but with a higher crown and a wider brim-c.o.c.ked at just the right jaunty angle. Everything was going to be perfect, dammit, perfect, and he wasn't going to think about Emily even once.

A Birmingham painted in official b.u.t.ternut waited for him. ”Take you into town, sir?” the driver said.

”If you don't, we ain't got a show,” Jeff answered, and the fellow behind the wheel laughed. Jeff added, ”Yeah, you might as well. I've come this far. I don't reckon I'll chicken out now.” He slid into the back seat.

”Better not,” the driver agreed. ”That's where you get one of them waddayacallems-breeches of promise suits, that's it.”

That wasn't exactly it, but came close enough. Jeff wondered if any lawyers were filing breach of promise suits these days, or if the Army had grabbed them all. Most, anyhow, he guessed. But a maiden spurned could probably still find a lawyer to be her knight in s.h.i.+ning armor-at a suitable hourly rate, of course.

Edith Blades was no maiden. On the other hand, Jeff didn't aim to spurn her. ”Long as I'm at the church, everything'll be just fine,” he said.

A couple of buses sat in the church parking lot. They'd brought guards in from Camp Determination. Patrols would be thin there this afternoon and evening. Jeff hoped they wouldn't be too too thin. He didn't think they would. He'd made the camp as hard to break out of as he could. It ought to get along just fine for a few hours with a skeleton crew. thin. He didn't think they would. He'd made the camp as hard to break out of as he could. It ought to get along just fine for a few hours with a skeleton crew.

Hip Rodriguez waited in the doorway and waved when Jeff got out of the Birmingham. Edith had squawked a little when Jeff asked a Mexican to be his best man, but he'd won the argument. ”Wasn't for him, sweetheart,” he'd said, ”it's not real likely I'd be here to marry you.” Edith hadn't found any answer for that. Pinkard hadn't figured she could.

”You look good, Senor Senor Jeff,” Rodriguez called. Jeff,” Rodriguez called.

”So do you,” Pinkard said, which was true. His old Army buddy hadn't put on nearly so much weight as he had, and looked impressive as the devil in his guard's uniform. Whoever had designed those clothes knew how to intimidate.

”Gracias.” Rodriguez's smile was on the sheepish side. ”You know something? This is the very first time I ever go inside a Protestant church.” Rodriguez's smile was on the sheepish side. ”You know something? This is the very first time I ever go inside a Protestant church.”

Thinking about it, Jeff realized he'd he'd never set foot inside a Catholic church. He remembered some of the things he'd heard about those places when he was growing up in Birmingham. Turning them on their head, he said, ”Don't worry, Hip. I promise we don't keep the Devil down in the storm cellar.” never set foot inside a Catholic church. He remembered some of the things he'd heard about those places when he was growing up in Birmingham. Turning them on their head, he said, ”Don't worry, Hip. I promise we don't keep the Devil down in the storm cellar.”

By the way his pal started to cross himself, he must have been wondering something like that. Rodriguez broke off the gesture before completing it. ”Of course not, Senor Senor Jeff,” he said, though his expression argued it was anything but Jeff,” he said, though his expression argued it was anything but of course. of course.

Jeff went on into the vestibule or whatever they called the antechamber just inside the entrance. Edith's sister, who would be her maid of honor, stood guard at the door to the minister's little office. The bride waited in there, and the groom was not going to set eyes on her till the ceremony started.

Jeff liked Judy Smallwood just fine. If he hadn't got to know Edith first, he might have liked her sister better. Since Judy was going back to Alexandria right after the wedding, though, that wasn't likely to prove a problem. ”You look mighty nice,” he told her, and she did. Her dress was of glowing blue taffeta with short puffed sleeves that set off her figure and her fair skin, dark blond hair, and blue eyes.

By the way those eyes traveled him, she thought he cut a pretty fine figure himself in his fancy uniform. She said, ”Kind of a shame you haven't got anybody coming out from Alabama for the day.”

”My ma and pa been dead for years,” Jeff answered with a shrug. ”Don't have any brothers or sisters. My cousins . . .” He shrugged again. ”I don't recollect the last time I talked to one of them. They heard from me now, they'd just reckon I was aiming to pry a wedding present out of 'em.”

”Well, if it's like that, you shouldn't,” Judy said. ”It's too bad, though.”

”Have I got time for a cigarette before we get going?” Jeff wondered. He'd just pulled the pack out of his pocket when the minister emerged from the office. Jeff made the cigarettes disappear again. A smoke would have calmed his nerves, but he could do without. Anyhow, the only real cure for prewedding jitters was about four stiff drinks, and that would make people talk. He touched the brim of his hat. ”Howdy, Parson.”

”Mr. Pinkard,” the Reverend Luke Sutton said, bobbing his bald head in return. He sent Hip Rodriguez a slightly fishy stare. Rodriguez showed no sign of sprouting horns on his forehead or letting a barbed tail slither out past his trouser cuffs, so the minister looked away and started down the aisle.