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Wolf In The Fold
Question: What do you call twenty three Rain Islanders in a Tiki Bar on
a wet day in November?by Antonia T. Tiger Chapter Three In which Sergeant Wolf Baginski encounters lawyers and pirates, and Rikki-tikki-tavi comes to the islands to help deal with bad things. Answer: Army Union Landing Force Detachment Spontoons. “'Ten-Shun!” somebody by the door shouted. “As you were.” The ocelot furled his umbrella. “Tsing-Tao, please,” he called to the bar. “And please, gentlemen, don't treat me like an officer. I might feel insulted if you made a habit of it.” The detachment also had five Sergeants, plus Wolf Baginski, and there was a four-man team back at barracks, on stand-by, staying dry and sober. The ocelot noticed that they seemed to be pacing their drinking. It was Gonzales who asked the question. “So, how did it go?” Doctor Charles de Vere Bredon, anarchist, revolutionary, and former Subaltern in Queen Victoria's Own Corps of Guides, laughed. “The bastards forgot the marriage. Won everything else, and forgot that.” “Lawyers aren't that stupid,” said Gonzales, into the silence. “They didn't know Spontoonie Law. And, under the Treaty, Spontoonie Law applied.” He took his glass of beer, and sipped. “And they really didn't want to disagree with my evidence.” Somehow, without anyone moving, the ocelot was the centre of attention. “How so?” “Because, while the marriage voided any pre-existing will, Sylvie immediately made a will which restored it. Annulling the marriage would have pissed off a shaman, so they had to accept my evidence that she was of sound mind on that day. Remember, I was there. But, according to Treaty, Spontoonie Law applies, and they didn't realise that the new will was invalid.” “No mention of her spouse,” said Weber, who was not-quite-married to a Spontoonie girl; the sort of Spontoonie not-quite-married which comes with a nine-month backdating option on the paperwork. “You have it, sir. And all because they didn't want Wolf as a trustee.” Bredon shook his head slowly. “Gentlemen, let that be a lesson to you. Don't get greedy.” “And Wolf?” That was Gonzales again. “He is closeted with two very eminent Spontoonie lawyers, setting up a trust fund with malice aforethought. The University gets its Chair of Petroleum Geology, and they don't get control of anything more. Sylvie's Graduate Students get the chance to earn their degrees. And the rest he's spending in the islands.” “Hey, remember that Spontoonie kid at the funeral?” There was silence. Of course they remembered. A rather cute rabbit, who had been listening to Sylvie tell stories, and who wouldn't hear any more. “Wolf remembered. A chunk of the money is going to fund visiting storytellers. They come out here, and tell their stories, and learn some of the local stories. That's what Wolf was doing, when he had the chance: going back to South Island and trying to tell the kids the rest of the stories.” Gonzales nodded. “He asked me to come along with him and help. Bring my guitar. He's feeding 'em pure Kipling.” A voice came from the doorway, a voice that rang clear despite its weariness: Now this is the Law of the Jungle -- as old and as true as the sky; And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die. As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back -- For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack. “Well, Doctor, am I corrupting the innocent?” Wolf Baginski looked, if anything, slightly mad. “I have just signed away more money than I ever dreamed of, because it was Sylvie's money, and she wanted to do something with it. And I half expect to hear her calling me a bloody fool.” Bredon signalled to the barman, grabbed Wolf with a deceptively easy paw, and pulled him to a seat. “Nothing wrong with Kipling. No soldier, but he can see clearer than most.” “You were in India. So he got it right?” The barman had not wasted time. Wolf took the glass and sipped. “Good beer.” He grinned. “But when it comes to slaughter You will do your work on water, An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.” “He got it right.” Bredon shrugged delicately. “Watch for the ten-rupee jezails.” “Right now,” said Wolf, “I could care less.” Bredon raised an eyebrow. “No, I don't think I want to die, but...” “If you get the job done, dying doesn't matter so much?” Wolf nodded brusquely. “That's part of how they think in Cipangu. It's not crazy, it's how guys get medals, but you think it through. One guy in a platoon thinking like that, there's still thirty other guys. One guy in an Alfie Team.” Bredon sipped at his own beer. “You never throw away a team. You always have a way to get them out. And one day the bad guys get lucky.” “Ten-rupee jezails?” “Ten-rupee jezails are all you need.” The door opened. Two Rhinos, with Shore Patrol brassards, walked in. “Landing Force?” said the older of the two, a grizzled otter with a Chief's rating. “Sorry, but there's a recall. Some situation developing, and Ardent is raising steam.” He peered around. “You too, Sarge.” Wolf set down his glass, half-full now. “On the way, Chief. Any scuttlebutt?” “It's hot, but small. And looks like they're going to set up a forward base.” Wolf stood, and Bredon noticed a slight change. Maybe a big one. “OK, boys, you heard the Chief. Anyone got bills to pay?” There was silence. “Then lets go to work.” --oOo--
“Heads up!” Esterhazy came out of the office. “Pirates or slavers, out
in the Four Hundred. And a Spontoonie on the island has a wireless
transmitter, so we're already moving. The Rhinos are setting up a
forward airbase, and the first lift has room for two chalks. First
chalk, Teams How and Oboe. Team Sugar is about half-way there by now,
with a bunch of medics, so grab some resupply on your way out. Second
chalk will be Teams King and Mike. Take some construction tools. Don't
wear yourselves out, but there's people out there need shelter. “Wolf nodded to himself. The Forward Basing Commando might be Rhinos with wings, but they could fight pretty well. The Alfies didn't need to fight right away, and they could do other stuff. “Wolf, I want the airborne option ready at the base, so Team Nan will be on the next lift. They can just squeeze you onto the fuel tankers.” He looked at Wolf for a moment, and then, in a louder voice, announced, “Wolf is my deputy at the forward base. We should have a decent wireless link, but if we lose that, he's in charge.” Oh shit! “The rest of us, for our sins, are the reserve. It'll be a while before we can get boats out to you, but Ardent loaded a couple of our fastboats, as well as a couple of pallets of emergency supplies.” Wolf raised a paw. “Yes, Wolf?” “We train to jump into water. You have a team that can link up with the Ardent.” “Flying boats, Wolf. But, fair point if the weather got awkward. And I'll get some swimmer kit out to you, as well.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “We got five hours full daylight. The Rhinos are going out feline-heavy. Let's move it.” They moved it. --oOo--
Wolf had been given a map-case, in amongst all his other kit, as he'd
squeezed into the 'plane. It was an old 'plane, stripped of weapons,
filled with fuel tanks, and horribly overloaded. Even without two
fully-equipped parachutists. And the take-off had been interesting, in
the same way as it is interesting when a tracer bullet seems to hang in
the darkness, before making its mind up and come straight at you, very,
very, fast.Wolf had seen the trick done before, from the deck of the destroyer, making a finely judged high-speed pass across the seaplane lane so that the flying boat got kicked free of the water-drag. It was different, this time. For one thing, Ardent was long-gone, and so the wake came from a submarine, flat-out and trailing a haze of unburnt diesel,, which was lucky to make half the speed of a destroyer, even on the surface. For another, Wolf was on the inside, with no view of the world, just the noise and the shuddering and a god-awful kick in the pants. The plane managed to stay in the air. He was confident that his stomach would, eventually, get delivered. The Osprey tankers, and the Forward Basing Commando, were two very good ideas, he thought, which were ahead of their time. They just couldn't lift enough to do anything useful in a war. Today it meant that, at sunrise, there would be four of the latest Maritime Patrol versions of the Osprey, in the search area and fully fuelled. That was a good three hours extra search time, per plane, per sortie. Well, some guys had refuelled in flight, but it was too much a stunt. He looked through the map-case. OK, it was ugly. A tramp steamer, the sort of ship which was criss-crossing the Pacific all the time, but with the crew of genuine scum. Seventeen women and older girls missing, two pregnant women shot out of hand, and two more bayoneted. This place sounded about the same size as the place he'd grown up in: this was enough to wreck a community. He'd being feeling uneasy about Standing Orders. He hadn't been looking forward to executing prisoners. Looking at the bald outline of events, he reckoned he could do it. He pencilled a note. “Childcare”,he wrote. And added, “languages?” And, OK, they'd cut the delays to a minimum. That wireless set might have made the difference between impossible and a slim chance of finding the ship. The Royal Navy would have the description too, so today, at least, they were on his side. Mimeographed maps—one day there would be something better, but he at least knew what he had to secure—and one printed chart, Royal Navy, based on a forty-year-old survey, Better than nothing, and he realised that no sane Captain would run a ship through the Four Hundred at anything close to full speed, even in daylight. But would a pirate or slaver—it looked more like a slaver—be crazy enough to come anywhere near the Spontoons. Standing Orders were very clear on that, and a lot of that, which wasn't talked about, was because of history. The sort of history that people didn't want to repeat. Pirates were oathbreakers, and for a Rain Islander that was pretty damning in itself. He passed the summary over to Alberto, who read it through twice, added his own note, and handed it back. “Shaman?” Wolf signalled approval. Maybe somebody Spontoonie, but that would be something those people would need. This far out, though, things might be a bit different. There'd be people coming in to the atoll, every summer, to power the tourism industry. He scribbled another note at that thought. Now, how might a Pirate Captain escape? --oOo--
“You were resting your eyes, boss.” Alberto grinned. “Any ideas?”Wolf nodded. “What if they're pulling the same trick as we are? We'll be setting up a flarepath, doing at least some night flying. What if they plan to use 'planes, maybe refuel on the open ocean?” “Expensive, very expensive.” Wolf nodded. “Think about what Standing Orders means for supply and demand. And what it all might do to some gangboss's reputation.” “Think about what Standing Orders might have done to our intel. Dead men don't tell tales.” Wolf nodded. The plane was close to a beach now, you could feel it in the wave action. “Trouble is, they know Standing Orders. They're dead men. All they can do is try to spin a yarn that's a good enough story for an easy death.” “Wolf, if we lose contact with base, you're in charge.” Wolf's grin was not all that easy or friendly- --oOo--
Wet parachutes have an unfortunate habit of not opening, so Wolf and
Alberto made very sure that they kept their parachutes dry, and their
weapons, and Alberto's wireless set. And their boots. Sand on wet paws
isn't great, but Wolf had already learned that the locals had it right
about wet paws in wet boots....It still felt odd to be reporting the base commander with his boots still dangling by their laces around his neck. “Wolf Baginski, sir. I'm Sergeant Esterhazy's deputy for this mission.” The base commander had Engineer tabs on her overalls. “Glad to see you guys. Any thoughts I ought to hear.” There were times when forgiveness was an easier option than permission. “OK, I can see kids around, and I don't like the way they're behaving. They need specialised childcare. Also, whatever the local Shaman-equivalent might be, and is language a problem?” Wolf turned the page. “Does this place still have people away working in the tourism business at this time of year?” “They're flying out a couple of Spontoonie Priestesses, which covers most of that. How are you guys with kids?” “Bewildered, but we all came out of families. One more thing. Are Spontoonie women worth enough to the slave trade to be worth using long-range aircraft?” “Damned if I know, but that could really screw with our plans. They could use a tanker aircraft, maybe even the in-flight refuelling stunt. And that ship wouldn't need to get out of the Four Hundred.” “We got out here fast. That might have forced them to change plans. I reckon they could have planned to land around dawn, an hour or two before we could have gotten here from the Spontoons, and be away before we ever saw them.” “Could be a wild goose chase,” noted Alberto. “I'm not a pilot,” said the Engineer, “but what I do, you have to have a feel for operational planning. This feels right, Wolf. Let's go talk to Crimson Otter. She's running the wing-flappers, and she has charts. And we were planning a few training missions out this way.” “Don't assume we know all the possibilities.” Wolf blinked. “Has anyone checked which way the ship went?” “Only one way out of here for a ship that size. And then it's lost in the haze.” “Funnel smoke?” “Regular little Boy Scout. We asked. A couple of my people speak Spontoonie.” They came around some palms to a cluster of tents and an observation platform. “Crim, we got an Alfie on board who's been thinking!” “Thunderbird help us!” Crimson Otter peered out from one of the tents. She looked haggard. “Oh, it's Wolf. Panic over, the guy does have a brain. Come on in. We have tea.” Wolf walked into the tent and saluted. She half-smiled and returned the salute. “OK, Wolf, we're running search patterns, trying to cover where that ship could be. They're running, and the options are limited. Luckily, there are a lot of fast...” she mimed quote-marks with her paws, “...fishing boats around here, and the skippers know these waters.” “So a pirate would have to be incredibly stupid to try this.” Wolf ran through the scenario. “Even if the news hadn't got out so fast, the locals would have been after them, and whoever deals with the locals.” He shrugged. “And they'd be a bit more inventive than Standing Orders allow.” “When you put it like that...” “Yeah, even if this is part of a gang war, it don't make sense. Not that plan.” He shrugged. “At least, not to this soldier. Now, a gang war helps. They get more from this than just the kudos of taking Spontoonie women and getting away with it. Although, Standing Orders and everything, a bunch of Spontoonie women would be worth a lot. Enough to use some big, long-range flying boats?” “Oh shit,” said Crimson Otter. “It makes a lot of sense. And they'd be near. Probably plan to take-off at dawn. No hurry, we wouldn't be likely to react before then.” She grinned. “We have a flight of fleet fighters, standard planning. We could take 'em down easy.” “And twenty Spontoonie women.” “Sixteen missing, five dead. Your people found a twelve-year-old. And a dead stranger. She killed one, and they made a very nasty example of her. She might have been alive when they started...” She stopped. “A guy of yours called Weber.” Wolf nodded. “He's in some sort of marriage with a Spontoonie girl. Well, I might as well forget about bending Standing Orders to try to get good intel.” He walked over to the table with the chart. “Crimson, how fast would the ship travel.” “I figured, from the description, fifteen knots.” “In these waters? Reefs... Shoals... Even if she ran flat out, she couldn't go in anything like a straight line.” He looked over the chart. “Here. Good place to land flying boats, and no drinkable water. Nobody would use the place.” “And a dead end for an ordinary ship. We've not been wasting effort on the sector.” She hugged Wolf, briefly. “I can't do much, but I can put one plane over that atoll before dusk, looking like it's in transit. Anything more, without evidence...” “Cameras?” “We need a lab.” “You got Alfies. There's a very portable package we can get sent out The rest just needs a little time...” --oOo--
Esterhazy looked at the signal form and whooped. “He's cracked it!”Blakeney looked around. “Your guy? Wolf?” “They're using aircraft for their escape, and he's found the ship.” He looked at the chart, and prodded a particular place. “There, remember we had a look at it as a potential base.” “So that's why they wanted the film lab kit. One high-altitude pass, and they have their maps.” “Something like that. Something went wrong with their wireless...” Blakeney looked at Esterhazy. Esterhazy looked at Blakeney. Both furs smiled. “And the boys will follow him,” said a voice. Both furs looked around. “Doctor,” said Blakeney. “Force Commander.” “So, are you taking a professional interest in Sergeant Baginski.” “Of course. He's a fur under unusual stress. And the Transition Committee is only adjourned.” Bredon made a dismissive paw gesture. “Besides, he reminds me of somebody I used to know.” “Sir?” Esterhazy was apparently casual. “Myself, a long time ago. And I do not think he approves of Standing Orders.” “He just has to follow them,” Blakeney still showed some respect, but he was suddenly a soldier talking to a civilian. “You should talk to your Shaman about that.” Bredon touched his hat with the fingers of one paw. “He thought of the children, you know. Which is why I'm on the next medical stick. I came out here to learn from the Spontoonies. They have experience of civilian casualties. It's a hard road, medicine. You usually have to learn from the bad things that may happen.” Esterhazy nodded. “He'll parachute in. High altitude, the Osprey gliding, all nice and silent. And if everybody does their job right, they won't even need to swim.” Bredon didn't need to be told what else might happen. “He'll be boarding the plane now,” he said, almost wistfully. “All I had was a good horse.” --oOo--
“Are you going to look for my mummy?”A cub, maybe six or seven years old. Wolf looked down at the lad. “I'm looking for the bad men first. I want to stop them, before they hurt anyone else.” “Good. Don't forget my mummy.” Of course not.” He took off his beret. “Can you look after this for me. I don't want it to get dirty.” “My mummy, she can wash it for you.” Wolf nodded, and walked on down the beach, telling himself that in a place like this, it was always hard to distinguish one family from another, but he had a sick feeling that he'd have to buy another beret, because that cub's mummy had never left the island, and never would. “You OK?” “Functional.” Wolf started putting on his jump helmet. “Oh my poor ears.” “Standing Orders?” “Kill them all; let the Gods decide.” He took a deep breath. “We don't really have a choice, but we really need good intel.” “It's a good plan.” “It's a lousy plan, Alberto, but I can't figure a better one.” “That works for me, Sarge.” --oOo--
Everyone knew the risks, and Crimson Otter knew how much depended on
her. It was not so unlike high-altitude bombing, which everyone knew
was a mug's game. You could never be quite sure enough of the wind, and
if the target was moving, they had plenty of time to dodge. This time
they had a pretty good idea of the wind, but a parachutist drifted far
more than a bomb would.And she didn't really like Wolf's answer to what happened if they did land in water. “We can swim, and we have knives.” Yeah, right, and maybe you can get away with sneaking up on sentries, and taking their guns. But they only have to get lucky once. At least it was getting close to full moon, which made her job easier, and Wolf's harder. And they were going to use engines, a little. Another couple of Ospreys were going to pass over, navigation lights on. After all, the forward base wasn't so far away, and if somebody got their navigation a bit wrong. All she was doing was flying the plane. It was the fur at the bombsight who mattered. Four parachutists, loaded with their gear. She could feel half a ton of death leave the rear cargo door. Maybe, one day, there's be bombs that could steer themselves to a target, but even then she reckoned guys like Wolf and his friends would be the ultimate smart weapons. And she was scared that she had thrown them away. --oOo--
There had to be a better way, thought Wolf. Drifting down with the wind, nothing he could do, and too much moonlight. Two horribly exposed minutes. Boats would have been too noisy, or if they'd used the canoes for silence, too slow. Two minutes, when anybody who looked up might see him, and raise the alarm. Two minutes, when one good shot with a rifle could kill the whole team. If he heard a bullet pass, maybe he should just let go the risers and dangle, like a corpse. Play dead. At least the wind seemed to be working out well. He could hardly feel it, drifting with it. But the island wasn't really moving, just getting bigger, getting nearer. And there was the surfline beneath him. He was going to be dry, but high. He spilled air from his 'chute, dropping faster, losing a bit of forward speed, felt the weight of the legbag vanish, and then he was down. Sand isn't all that soft. In some ways it is worse than solid ground, easier to turn an ankle. At least Wolf didn't feel anything as he brought his chute under control and roughly bundled it. First thing is to get under cover. Then, slowly, carefully, find the rest of the team. Alberto, with the radio-telephone. Mad Sandy, with his Special Service Carbine. And Boomer Mick, for whom any plan without a big explosion was somehow lacking in perfection. He'd allowed a quarter hour to join up, It took ten. “No sign of sentries.” Sandy sounded disappointed. His carbine looked like a rather oddly-barrelled Mouser: sub-sonic round, and a silencer. You could hear the click of the firing-pin, and the thud of the bullet hitting the target. Nothing else. “Sloppy,” said Wolf. “I reckon the people flying the planes are a bit more careful. Wouldn't surprise me, planes that size, if they were military.” Just a reminder. “Did anyone see the ship?” “Caught a glimpse. Looks like they scuttled her.” Wolf nodded. “Let's go wreck their ride home.” It's a bit hard to destroy a 'plane. You really need both fire and explosion, and that's pyrotechnically awkward. Fire on it's own can be enough, if you can set off a petrol tank. But a flying boat with a hull full of water isn't going to be going anywhere. The sentries looked to be asleep. In maybe twenty minutes Mick's carefully placed charges would wake up any living sentry. “We all saw the fire. Remember, expect sentries. Or maybe somebody pissing. If we can separate prisoners from pirates, we do. Otherwise, life could get interesting. But I want to be in place when the planes go up.” “Might not be much noise. Those charges are underwater.” Mick grinned for a moment. “It'll sound strange.” Wolf nodded. “Move out,” They moved out. --ooo--
It was the children who were overwhelming Doctor Bredon, and nobody seemed sure which of them still had mothers to save. Though the one carrying the Alfie beret, like a talisman, was very sure that his mummy was going to come back. So he took a battered book from his rucksack, and settled in the pool of light of a kerosene lamp. He flicked through the pages, and looked at the way they had clustered around him, and started reading. “This is the story of the great war that Rikki-tikki-tavi fought, single-handed, through the bathrooms of the big bungalow in the Segowlee cantonment....” --oOo--
Wolf checked the time. By now, the back-up party would have threaded their way through the reef, but he'd made an assumption. He'd expected the prisoners to be kept apart from the slavers. And he was wrong. He maybe hadn't realised that nobody in the business expected Spontoonie women to be virgins, He certainly hadn't expeted the ugly truths of breaking a woman to slavery. Maybe, if he'd thought about it, he might have made a connection with his own reactions to danger, and survival. “Forty pirates, at least.” said Sandy. “Mick, I wish you'd used more explosives.” “Can't win,” muttered Mick. He checked his watch, took something from a pocket of his assault vest, stood, and threw it towards the bonfire. Wolf caught the glint of firelight on a grenade spoon, and almost cringed. “Magnesium flare,” said Mick. “Mind your eyes.” “That will wake them up,” said Alberto. “Or, at least, stop them thinking with their balls.” Wolf screwed his eyes shut. He still saw the flare go off. Nobody would look until the light faded again. Nobody who wanted good night vision, at least. When he did look, the pirates looked rattled. Most of them were standing up. Too many of them had pants that needed fastening. He noticed that a good many didn't seem to be armed, which was probably wise of them—Spontoonie women would be dangerous if they could get their paws on a weapon. Oh well, this didn't look quite such a bad scheme after all. “Sandy. Shoot!” One. Two. Three. And then the planes went up. The water did muffle the crack of high explosive, but it wasn't thunder. So all the pirates were looking the wrong way. And standing up. And, well, no mel is thinking at his best when he's interrupted in mid-yiff. The smart thing to do is get out of the kill zone. But it makes a big difference if you remember to take your weapons with you. That's one of the things that tells you if you're facing soldiers. And four machine carbines—Sandy was dual-armed—makes hesitation a bad thing. The next few minutes were grim, Freeing bound, frightened, women and, for Wolf, making sure the dead stayed dead. And counting them. Twenty-three pirates, each with an extra 9mm round to the head. He felt a little sick. Sixteen naked women, most of them in something like shock. Four of them barely more than children. Out of the firelight, then, into the refuge of a patch of shrub at the end of the island. Alberto finally started setting up his radio-telephone. Sandy settled down to wait for the chance to deliver more silent death. Mick slipped past the fire, and came back with a rucksack of assorted guns, empty of his explosives. No doubt he had been creative. “Learn anything?” “8mm Mousers, they're everywhere in China. But I've never seen a machinegun like this one.” He laid it down carefully, muzzle towards the bonfire, keeping the receiver out of the sand. There was a double drum over the top, like a saddle. He laid down a canvas pouch. “More ammo.” “Yeah, and I'm not sure we can figure out how to use it. This ain't no pulp fiction. For us, the impossible takes time.” You needed to work the safety without thinking, work the bolt for a stppage withou having to look. “Boss!” That was Alberto. “Contact.” Out in the darkness, there was the sound of boat engines. “Fishermen” can be very sneaky, but now they were hurrying to deliver the rest of the boys. Wolf pulled out his Very pistol, checked the notched cartridge-rim with his thumb, snapped the barrel back into place, and fired a recognition flare. On the horizon there was a first glow of dawn. “Still a bad plan, Boss?” “Worked so far,” said Wolf. “Can't be so bad, Alberto.” One of the boats was getting close. They would be getting an Alfie team and half a dozen “militia”. One of Mick's booby-traps went off. You could reckon on one fewer pirate on the island, at least. He tried not to hear the sobbing behind him. It felt like the sound of failure. The pirates maybe thought that they could buy an escape if they had hostages. Or maybe they just wanted to die before the local militia arrived. Didn't matter: they died anyway. Wolf was almost relieved that they were actively trying to kill him, and then he heard a machine-gun firing from out over the lagoon, in close-cropped, professional bursts of tracer, and that finished it. --oOo--
Wolf suspected that one of the pirates had still been alive when the militia had found him. He hadn't liked the screams, but he wasn't going to complain. He just hunched a little tighter to the tree he was sitting against, and concentrated on writing his report. So the militia sergeant surprised him, which in other circumstances would have been embarrassing. “Sergeant Baginski?” He almost broke his pencil. He looked up. These guys were not just militia, or fishermen. “Yes?” The guy seemed a little awkward. “I wanted to say thanks. We got our women back, alive. At least we can try and work things out, now.” Wolf nodded. “I made mistakes.” “They're alive. You didn't lose any of your guys. I don't see any mistakes.” “I was lucky.” He arched his back a little, and worked his shoulders. “Lucky is good, but in this job, it's better to make your own. I bet you don't just rely on luck to have a boat's engine start when you want it.” There was a rueful grin. “True.” “You did good too. Was that your machine-gun?” “Yep. A Vickers.” “Well-handled,” said Wolf. There was silence. “Well, if you guys ever need anything, let us know. We owe you.” “You look after those women, treat 'em right.” He blinked. “My wife died last month.” “May you find peace.” “And you...” They looked at each other in silence, for what seemed like a very long time, and then the Militia Sergeant turned and walked away. Wolf couldn't help thinking that Sylvie and he had had it easy. No, easy wasn't the word. --oOo--
The last of the cleanup involved some old fishing net and heavy lumps
of coral., and it was still going on when Wolf left the island. Wolf
was pretty sure, now, who the Base Intel Cell were. They'd recovered a
lot of paper from the flying boats, which hadn't had much depth beneath
their keels. Better water than fire,
as the femme mouse in charge said.Boats were quieter than planes. It was easy for Wolf to rest his eyes. The forward base was bustling, and the tender had finally arrived. No need to fly in fuel. The locals were probably worrying about their “fishing”. He was walking down the pier when a cub broke free of a local woman, a face he half-remembered, ran to him and stopped in the middle of the pier. The cub was carrying an Alfie beret. Wolf crouched. “Hello.” “Hello, Alfie.” “Is that your mummy, back there.” “Yep”. A very definite nod. “I kept your hat safe.” The cub held it out. “Thanks.” Wolf took it, and unfolded it. There was a slight, alien, small child scent to it. A sort of used cuddly toy scent. He put it on. “There, does that look right.?” The cub looked at him, and then past him at the rest of the team. “Yep,” he said. Wolf nodded. “You did good.” The cub stepped back, and managed a quite decent salute, navy-style. Wolf straightened his legs and responded with an Army Union salute. “You did it different,” said the cub. Mick chuckled. “We're Army Union Landing Force. We are different.” “Thanks, Alfies,” and with that the cub turned and ran back to his mother. Wolf looked at the woman. He had a memory of her, naked and terrified and bound in the firelight, as he'd stepped over her and made sure of another pirate. Carefully he locked that memory away, hidden. She was pretty, sure enough, or could be again, one day. He came to attention and gave her the same salute he'd given her son. She didn't smile, but she nodded ever so slightly. Wolf broke eye-contact, and led his Team off the pier. --oOo--
“What's a mongoose?”“Dunno. Kills cobras. And cobras are bad things.” “Is Wolfbaginski a mongoose?” The two cubs looked at each other. “I think a mongoose is supposed to have red eyes.” Rikki-tikki
woke up with a jump, for the mongooses are light sleepers. "Oh, it's
you," said he. "What are you bothering for? All the cobras are dead.
And if they weren't, I'm here." Rikki-tikki had a right to be proud of
himself. But he did not grow too proud, and he kept that garden as a
mongoose should keep it, with tooth and jump and spring and bite, till
never a cobra dared show its head inside the walls.
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