Destroyermen its-1 Page 13

  Captain Reddy wearily climbed the ladder and returned to his chair. He waved the men back to their duties at the warning: "Captain on the bridge!" He hadn't been gone fifteen minutes. A rising tension knotted his chest, and though he thought he hid it well, his concern over Mahan was making him almost ill. He had a terrible choice to make.

  The windows had been replaced, and once again he could look at the sea ahead without the wind stinging his eyes. Larry Dowden had the watch, but Matt couldn't stay off the bridge. He knew it looked bad, like he didn't trust Larry, but he'd hardly left at all except to go to the head.

  "Report?"

  "No contact, Skipper."

  Matt nodded and resumed his silent brooding. They should have seen her. The weather was fine, the sky clear. The northeast tip of Alor Island was sharp and defined ten miles off the starboard beam. They'd reached the rally point. It had been agreed that they would meet here, or if Walker didn't make it Mahan would cut northeast around Wetar and drive south between Timor and Moa Island. Walker had cruised at twenty knots, but Matt was certain Jim wouldn't have pushed Mahan so hard. Even if he somehow beat them here, he would have lingered, and should have been visible on such a clear day. That left only the inescapable conclusion that she hadn't come this far. They must have passed her somehow, maybe in the dark, but she must be behind them. Unless something had happened to her.

  That thought haunted him. It was his order that sent her away and led to this wasteful chase. He couldn't have known separation was unnecessary, but that did little to console him. Now the specter that haunted all destroyermen could no longer be avoided. Walker's fuel bunkers were down by a third. He had no choice. He spoke with a heavy heart.

  "Mr. Dowden, bring the ship about. Reduce speed to one-third."

  Larry sighed. He knew how painful the order was. He wasn't sure he could have made it. Maybe the other ship really was behind them, but it felt too much like giving up.

  "Aye, aye, sir. Helm, come left to a heading of two eight zero."

  Matt stood and looked at his watch. "Pass the word, Mr. Dowden. All officers in the wardroom at 1630." He paused. "Better see that our `guest' is moved elsewhere." He turned to leave the bridge but stopped. "I take that back. Have Sergeant Alden escort the enemy officer to the meeting."

  Dowden's eyebrows rose. "Also, ask Mr. Bradford if he'd be kind enough to join us."

  "Aye, sir."

  Cigarette smoke swirled and eddied in the breeze from the open portholes. The shell holes had finally been patched. Captain Reddy sat in his chair at the "head" of the table, all his surviving officers ranged down either side. The table was crowded, with representatives from each division. Larry Dowden, Chief Gray, Rick Tolson, Bernard Sandison, and PO Riggs sat on his left. On his right were Sandra Tucker, Spanky, Mr. Bradford, Garrett, and Lieutenant (j.g.) Alan Letts, the supply officer. The chair at the far end of the table was unoccupied. When Sergeant Alden escorted the Japanese officer into the compartment and seated him there, a hushed silence fell on the group.

  Tamatsu sat with dignity, eyes fixed upon the captain. Alden leaned against the bulkhead behind his prisoner until Juan brought him a chair. He thanked the little Filipino and sat, his leg out in front of him. The room was charged with an electric hostility, and all eyes were on the enemy officer.

  "This is Lieutenant Tamatsu Shinya. He's offered his parole and I've decided to accept, conditionally. He'll be treated with courtesy and allowed freedom of the ship—within reason. For now, however, he'll be accompanied at all times by Sergeant Alden. Sergeant? Is that acceptable to you?"

  "Aye, aye, sir. There's not many places I can go now, though."

  Matt nodded expressionlessly. "Lieutenant Shinya, allow me to present my officers." He named the others at the table, and they each acknowledged him with a nod, but most were clearly displeased. The reaction wasn't lost on the captain. "Gentlemen . . . and lady, Lieutenant Shinya's country and ours may still be at war—wherever they are—but that can no longer affect us. That's what we have to talk about. We must make plans based on the assumption that we're completely on our own and the United States Navy can't support us. At the same time, we must remain conscious of the fact that, no matter what, we're still part of that Navy. No relaxation of discipline will be tolerated, and there'll be no change whatever in the way we run this ship. Lieutenant Shinya is here because he is, literally, in the same boat we are and he is subject to the same rules and regulations as anyone else. There'll be no special treatment"—he looked at his officers with a grim expression—"or abuse. Mr. Dowden?"

  "Uh, yes, sir?"

  "Acquaint yourself with Lieutenant Shinya and discover if he has useful talents or abilities. One way or the other, find something for him to do. Everybody pulls their weight." He looked at Tamatsu. "Is that understood, Lieutenant? Those are my terms."

  Shinya bowed his head slightly and replied. "I understand perfectly, Captain Reddy." There were murmurs of surprise when he spoke English. Most still wore set, closed expressions, but a few looked thoughtful.

  Matt plowed right on to divert attention from their visitor. "First, as I'm sure you're aware, we've turned around. We should have found Mahan, but we didn't, so either we passed her somehow or . . ." He cast a hard glance down both sides of the table. "Or she's lost. We'll search as we retrace our steps, but we don't have enough fuel to go all the way to Australia and back to Surabaya. Besides, I don't really think Perth's there anymore."

  "You've considered the probability that Surabaya isn't there either?" questioned Bradford.

  "Yes. In fact, I don't imagine it is. But we must have fuel. Whatever's happened to the world, the geography's the same—at least around here. Can you think of any better place to find oil within our range? To be more specific, since you're our expert on this point, where around here would we most likely find oil? Oil that we can easily extract?"

  Bradford steepled his fingers and looked thoughtful. The pipe between his teeth wasn't lit, but he sucked it speculatively. "I'll have to consider that. There's oil in this entire region, but I'm not sure where best to look. Surabaya, perhaps. There were significant deposits there, in our world. Deposits have been discovered recently under Flores as well. Allow me to consult my manuals. Perhaps they will tell me where it was first found, and how. That might have a bearing on where to look."

  "Very well," Matt replied. "See what you can find and let me know as soon as you can." He shifted his gaze to Lieutenant McFarlane. "What else can we burn in the boilers? Can we burn wood?"

  Spanky returned his gaze with horror. "Jesus, Skipper! You can't put wood in my boilers! It would screw everything up!"

  Matt looked at him sharply. "I know it's not our first choice, but can it physically be done?"

  "Yes, sir . . ." answered the engineer reluctantly, "but it would be terrible. All that ash—it would be hell gettin' it all out and it would screw up the boilers. Besides, we'd have to carry tons of the stuff. We've got nowhere to stow it and if we load it on deck, we'll be top-heavy as hell— beggin' your pardon, sir."

  "But it would work in an emergency? To get us from one island to the next?"

  "It would," he answered miserably.

  "Very well. Come up with a plan to stow enough wood to take us, say, five hundred miles, if the need should arise."

  "Aye, sir."

  The captain turned to Sandra Tucker, and involuntarily his expression softened. "Lieutenant Tucker. How are things in your department?"

  Sandra smiled at the mention of "her department," which consisted of herself, Karen Theimer—the only other nurse who'd remained with Walker—and Jamie Miller, the pharmacist's mate. There was no question it was her department, though, and a critical one. "Improving, sir. I think Rodriguez might return to limited duty in a week or so. His leg is healing nicely." She looked down the table past Tamatsu and glowered at Sergeant Alden. "Speaking of legs, though, there are some people running around on them that shouldn't be." Alden pretended interest in something under
the table. "The others should survive, but it'll take time. There're plenty of `walking wounded' still on duty, but even if I tried to keep them in their bunks, I don't think I could." She looked straight into Matt's eyes and continued. "Right now, everyone's keyed up, with so much work just to keep the ship going. When the crisis is past, I expect a lot of casualties from exhaustion. The crew's burning itself up. Wearing out." Matt nodded back at her, realizing she was talking about him as much as anybody. She continued. "Actually, the only one I'm really worried about is Davis. He has a persistent fever, and no matter what I do, it just won't break."

  "He was bitten by the lizard?"

  Sandra nodded. "Mr. Bradford says they're septic but not poisonous. That may be, even though they weren't the same lizards he's familiar with. It looks like a really nasty bacterial infection, but there might be some kind of toxic venom as well." She shrugged.

  "Keep me informed," Matt said solemnly, and she nodded. "Mr. Garrett. How about guns? Small arms too." Garrett frowned. "Is there a problem?" asked Matt. Garrett's cheeks turned red, and he shook his head quickly.

  "No, sir, no problem. I—I was just surprised by the question about small arms. I don't have the exact numbers off the top of my head. No excuse, sir."

  The captain allowed a genuine smile. "A general idea would suffice, Mr. Garrett. I understand you've been busy with the number three gun?"

  "Yes, sir," Garrett replied, visibly relieved. "We got it working. The main problem was in the wiring, but there's damage to the traverse gear. I'd like to get it in the machine shop as soon as I can. It binds."

  Matt looked at him thoughtfully, but shook his head. "Not right now.

  I don't want any of our weapons out of action. Besides"—he looked at Ensign Sandison—"the condemned torpedoes have priority in the machine shop, except for essential repairs. Until we know more about those people on the big ship, I'd like to be able to put holes in it if we have to."

  Garrett glanced at Bernie and saw him write notes on a pad. He looked back at the captain. "Well, sir, other than that, the main battery's okay. Gunner's Mate Silva's overhauled the machine guns, as well as the three-incher on the fantail. The magazines could be better. We depleted over a third of our four-inch fifty, and three-inch twenty-three point five—for all the good it did!" The uselessness of the three-inch gun at the stern would have been a running joke—if it were funny. "We picked up a lot of machine gun ammo in Surabaya, but those trigger-happy goons burned through nearly all the extra. We still have a little more than our full allotment, but . . ." He took a deep breath. "As for small arms, I don't have exact numbers," he repeated apologetically, "but we're in fairly good shape. It's not unusual for Asiatic Fleet sailors to act as Marines— particularly in China, and the armory's got sixty Springfields, and probably two dozen 1911 pistols. We also have four Browning automatic rifles and half a dozen Thompsons. The ammunition headstamps are pretty old—1918—but the stuff looks okay. There's even a few thousand rounds of the old thirty U.S., which is good, because there're several crates, down under everything, that say they have Krag rifles in them. Maybe somebody picked them up in the Philippines?"

  Gray grunted. "I doubt it. Walker was commissioned in 1919, and a lot of Krags were still in the Navy. I bet they came with the ship. Probably never been out of their crates."

  Matt nodded. "Look into it. Anything else?"

  "Aye, aye, sir. No, sir."

  "Very well. Sparks? Does the communications division have anything new?" Matt knew it didn't. He'd asked Riggs several times that day and left standing orders that if they received anything at all, he was to be informed at once.

  Riggs shook his head. "Nothing, Skipper. The equipment's operating perfectly. Everything checks out. There just isn't anything to hear." Everyone already knew it, but to hear him say it again only deepened the gloom.

  Matt sensed the darkening mood and pushed quickly on. As he often did, he turned to the Chief to boost morale. "Any major holes left, Boats?"

  "Nothing you'd call major," he replied with a hesitant grin. "The old gal's always leaked like a sieve. No matter how many holes we patch, she was riveted together, and there's probably not a seam in her bottom that doesn't seep, but damage control's done a hell of a job." He glanced at McFarlane and grinned even bigger. "Apes and snipes been working together so well, it ain't natural. We haven't patched holes in the funnels and such, but everything that'll let water in has something welded over it."

  McFarlane nodded. "She'll float, Skipper, and as long as we have power to the pumps I'll keep her pretty dry." He looked around the table. "She needs a yard, though." There were grim nods.

  "We know, Spanky," said the captain quietly. "Anything else on your end?"

  McFarlane shook his head, conscious that he'd lowered everyone's spirits again. "Uh . . . no, sir, not really. I was thinkin', though. As long as we're trying to conserve, we might want to figure out more ways to do it.

  Like, we might have the apes leave off chippin' and paintin' until we figure out what to use for paint when we're out. That sort of stuff."

  Gray started to protest that if his holy deck wasn't maintained in these tropical waters, there'd soon be no deck to maintain. But you couldn't use what you didn't have. "Spanky's right," he admitted grudgingly. "I know how the apes'll moan if they can't perform their favorite pastime." He grinned encouragingly and there were scattered chuckles. "But we have only so much paint. I have to paint the welds, but maybe we can let the cosmetic stuff slide."

  "That's a good point," said Matt. He turned at last to the supply officer, Alan Letts. Letts was a skinny kid from North Dakota with red hair and extremely fair skin, complete with freckles. He hated the sun, and even brief exposure left him resembling a radish. He was rarely seen above deck, and then only in the shadows, as if direct sunlight would melt him down to a puddle of wax. His sincere antics to avoid sunlight were vastly amusing to the crew, and he was very popular. He was a good sport too, and no matter how sensitive, his skin was also thick. Sometimes, in a spirit of fun, he allowed sailors to escort him around the ship with a Chinese parasol. Despite his efforts, even as he sat in the wardroom, great patches of chalky skin dangled from his face and arms and small specks had settled to the table. He was a good supply officer and knew all the bureaucratic angles, but those no longer applied. His greatest flaw, from Matt's perspective, was a complacent laziness. He suffered from the endemic Asiatic Fleet disease of "go with the flow." Matt hoped he could make the transition to the new imperative.

  "How does it look for supplies?" the captain asked.

  "We'll be okay for a while. We loaded up before we left Surabaya. Nobody wanted to leave anything for the Japs." Letts's eyes flicked toward their guest. "At present consumption, meaning normal, we've got three weeks, easy, before we feel any pinch on perishables. The refrigerator's stocked up. After that, we have canned stuff for about that long." He grimaced. "I'm not counting Vienna sausages. We better find something else before we're down to that, or there'll be mutiny in the chow line." He brightened. "Even if we don't cut back, we're in good shape food-wise for a month, month and a half."

  "We can't cut rations," pronounced Matt decisively, "not as hard as the men are working. Besides, that'd really wreck morale. We'll just have to find food." He looked at Courtney Bradford, and his eyes twinkled. "I wonder what dinosaur steak tastes like?" There was general laughter at Bradford's incredulous expression.

  "Eat dinosaurs? My God. The man's talking about eating dinosaurs!" the Australian muttered to himself.

  Matt returned to Letts. "Fresh water?"

  Walker's boilers were an open feed-water design, so they used seawater for steam, but the crew needed fresh water for cooking and drinking. The storage tanks were small and, even in normal times, bathing was a luxury. The men often lined up naked by the rail for a good spray-down with the fire hose. The salt water drove them nuts when it dried and caused rashes and other discomforts, but it was refreshing.

  "Water's a
problem," admitted Letts. "With the condensers in the shape they are, we have about a month's worth, at current usage."

  "Okay. So we need fuel, ammo, food, water." The captain arched an eyebrow at Gray. "And paint." There were more chuckles despite the fact that no one knew where to find any of those things. "What else?"

  "About a million things, Skipper," Letts replied, "but those are the most immediate. I'm sure Lieutenant McFarlane could add quite a list of spares, but—"

  "Right. Make a list of everything we need, but more importantly, figure out how we're going to get it. Use anybody you need, but find answers." Matt swiveled in his chair to look at Courtney Bradford. "Would you mind being conscripted?"

  The Australian took his pipe from his mouth and his eyes widened with pleasure. "Delighted, Captain! Delighted. How can I assist?"

  "Work with Letts to sort this out. You'll be his special assistant. I know this isn't the same world you were such a student of, but you must have a better idea where we can find supplies than any of us do. Agreed?"

  "Absolutely, Captain Reddy. I'll do my best!"

  "Of course you will."

  Matt glanced at Sandra when he said it, and saw the twinkle of amusement in her eyes. He smiled at her. He was pleased. All in all, the discussion had gone fairly well. His people were engaged, and actively working to solve problems. Morale was better than he would have expected, and the crushing terror of their situation was kept at bay—for now—by a veneer of normalcy. The tasks were unusual, but the familiarity of doing them within the extended family that was the crew of USS Walker was reassuring.

  Throughout the conversation, Lieutenant Shinya was silent. After the initial hostility, he seemed to have been forgotten, and he just listened. He was amazed by the familiarity with which the Americans talked and worked together. No one was afraid to speak, not even the most junior person present. It seemed chaotic compared to his more-regimented experience, but it also appeared effective. There was no hiding the fact that they were in a predicament, but there was no hesitation to mention failings that might reflect poorly on any department. That made it easier for the captain to assess the situation. He doubted a similar meeting aboard his own ship would have progressed as well, and he felt strangely refreshed.