Straits of Hell Read Free Page B

scratch. Since the Grik weren’t much interested in keeping records, all it had ever taken to shift untold tons of material, supplies, new machinery, and labor all over the place to build artillery, munitions, and mighty fleets of ships and dirigibles, was a Japanese project supervisor’s word, or short note. That such a large percentage of all that—in addition to what the “Jaaphs” overtly asked for—had quietly gone from the very beginning to Zanzibar would’ve come as a greatsurprise to First General Esshk and the Celestial Mother. Of course, Kurokawa had added even more to their hoard by intercepting every Grik ship and warrior sent to Madras to aid General Halik for the past several months, and without long-range communications, the Grik had no idea. The convoys had finally stopped, however, just a few weeks before, and that left him wondering whether the Grik had finally figured out what was happening—or if something else had occurred.
    â€œOur new equipment and weapons
should
be better,” Lieutenant Iguri, Muriname’s Exec, agreed tightly. “But
enough
better? And largely manned by Grik who still think we aid their vile Celestial Mother!” He looked imploringly at Muriname. “And our pilots . . . !”
    Kurokawa kept a placid face as he tamed another inner spike of fury at these men’s daring to question, or even discuss, his decisions. But he’d learned that the best way to keep and build their loyalty was to encourage them to invest themselves in his schemes. So long as they ultimately did what he wanted, he could control his anger and project an air of serene confidence. Let them dither and bicker all they wanted. He’d finally perfected the art of persuading men to believe he was wiser than they were yet truly respectful of their ideas. That way, even when he discarded their suggestions, they felt valued, as though they’d contributed and were involved.
    â€œWe must seek alliances,” Kurokawa declared. “Our power is great, but Lieutenant Iguri is correct: that’s largely due to the many Grik we control. The world is too large, and we are too few, to face it all alone,” he added with great solemnity. “These strangers do not threaten us—they can’t—but they might be of help.” He snorted. “And frankly, they have taunted us long enough with their cryptic messages and solicitations. It’s time we finally met.”
    The discussion ended, as it should with such an absolute pronouncement, and the men stood beneath the broad pavilion on the jungle-bordered airstrip, silently sipping refreshments brought by Grik servants. The strip was one of three in the vicinity of the growing installation around what they still called Menai Bay, on the southwest coast of Zanzibar. The island retained its brilliant white beaches, but was considerably larger on this world and the interior jungle was remarkably dense. The airstrips had been difficult to construct, taking tremendous effort to clear and prepare, but “their” Grik troops had provided all thelabor required. Responsible for controlling that labor—and the warriors performing it—were other officers, all former members of
Amagi
’s crew, promoted to lofty ranks. Many were present now, quietly conversing nearby in their surprisingly fine Grik-made “temperate white” uniforms.
That was another excellent stroke,
Kurokawa reflected, watching them.
Nice new uniforms—except for the painted-on rank,
he reminded himself, with a splash of annoyance
. But Grik embroidery is deplorable, and it’s the symbol that matters, after all. Even
Amagi
’s lowliest seamen have some rank now, and it makes no difference if they only outrank Grik. A little power is enough to “invest” them too—and make them want more
. He smiled.
    Turning to Muriname, he waved at the long row of aircraft lining the north side