Iron Gray Sea: Destroyermen by Taylor Anderson Page B

asked.
    “Not at the Screw. He’s supposed to meet us all at the Parade Ground,” Alan confirmed. “Unless he was in one of those things”—he gestured at the diminishing shapes in the sky—“and that was his idea of putting in an appearance.” Both men chuckled, but they couldn’t hide their uneasiness from each other.
    “I wish the Skipper was here,” Brister blurted at last, voicing what both were thinking. But Captain Reddy was hopelessly far away, and as Chief of Staff this really was Alan’s job . . . but nobody had ever expected he’d have to deal with anything like this. “Or even Adar. How come Adar isn’t coming?”
    “I tried to get him to,” Alan sighed, “but we both figured, finally, that this is something I better try to sort out before he gets involved.” He shrugged. “It’s not really his problem . . . yet. He’ll do what he has to, though, if we can’t square it away.”
    “How are we going to do that?” Brister asked flatly. There it was. And Alan had no idea.
    “The same way we’ve handled everything,” he said more firmly. “We wing it.”
    Brister snorted uneasily. “So that’s why Ben’s coming, huh?”
    * * * 
     
    The Busted Screw—the decidedly unofficial but more common name for the Castaway Cook—was usually a busy place, and it was jumping when Letts and Brister arrived in time for the midday rush. Traditionally, ’Cats ate only twice a day, but the human destroyermen had arrived among them accustomed to three meals (of some sort) each day, at about the same time. That was a tradition the hardworking ’Cats in the defense industry and military were quickly adopting. Cafés like the Screw were all over the city now, catering to the various Army regiments, but only Naval and Marine personnel (with some notable exceptions) were “permitted” to sit at the benches around the tables or sidle up to the bar beneath the broad roof of the Screw. It was a raucous place, particularly at times like this. Besides the noisy patrons (allowed only the admittedly superior chow during daylight duty hours), no matter how exclusive a joint it was considered, there were no walls and all the noises of the busy bayside activities could be watched and heard.
    Letts and Brister went to the centrally located bar and tried to spot their target through the bustle. Despite the sensitive situation, Letts was beginning to think he should have just sent a detail of Marines to escort the newcomers to the War Room in Adar’s Great Hall, and to hell with the consequences. He was very busy and irritated that they hadn’t reported there when they first arrived, as expected . . . but, then, they didn’t legally have to, did they?
    “Where are they, Pepper?” Brister shouted at the slender ’Cat with white-spotted black fur behind the bar. Pepper was the proprietor of the Screw, at least while Lanier was deployed, and he probably knew more about the state of the Alliance than any living being in Baalkpan. It was ridiculous to presume that he, at least, didn’t already know who they were here to see. He probably knew why too, whether the newcomers had blabbed or not.
    “Over there,” Pepper shouted, motioning with his ears at the farthest table, barely protected by the roof.
    Yeah, Letts decided. He knows something’s cockeyed . He’d seen the Lemurian’s concerned blinking. “Thanks.”
    “You wanna eat?” Pepper asked, coming around the bar and following a few steps while Letts and Brister made their way between the tables.
    “Later,” Letts said. He wasn’t very hungry just then, and needed to get the new arrivals away from the Screw as soon as he could. There. He saw them now. Five men sitting alone at a table surrounded by ’Cats who looked at them occasionally, blinking curiosity. “Damn,” he said aside to Brister. “They look like hell.”
    “They all do, those that survived. The Japs really put them through it,” Brister replied.
    Letts said nothing. The