"Anyway," he continued, "Mahan's shorthanded as hell—only about forty effectives, not counting the guys I took aboard—but she's not finished yet. Whatever you decide, Captain, we'll do. We might just want to take it a little easy. I also really hope we don't have to fight again." He chuckled wryly. "At least not as briskly as yesterday." His last comment drew scattered chuckles, but the mirth was tempered by the realization of what that fight had cost.
"What's the status of your wounded?" Matt asked.
"Mostly stable, but we could use a hand. The pharmacist's mate is dead, and the surgeon's run pretty ragged."
Matt nodded, and glanced at the nurses. They were a study in contrasts. The one who'd brought coffee—he'd learned her name was Karen Theimer—seemed nervous, jittery, almost fragile. She blinked constantly as her eyes quested around the compartment and her hands squirmed against one another on the table. The one beside her, Pam Cross by her name tag, was almost as short as Lieutenant Tucker and outwardly as selfpossessed, but her eyes told a different story. The other two nurses, Beth Grizzel and Kathy McCoy, weren't present. The sandy-blond lieutenant was still watching him, which was understandable. Everyone was. But once again, her expression of appraisal left him uneasy. Besides, she was a knockout. He managed to smile at her. "You must be Lieutenant Tucker."
She stood from her seat at the table. Since the captain didn't sit, she wouldn't remain seated while speaking to him. "Lieutenant Sandra Tucker, sir."
"Lieutenant, I apologize for not greeting you when you came aboard, and I'm sorry I haven't had a chance since, but I'd like to thank you now for all the help you and the other nurses have given us. I'd also like to extend my deepest regrets for the loss of Ensign Ranell." Several heads bobbed, and there was a general murmur of condolences.
"Thank you, Captain Reddy. I'm sorry too. I'm sorry for Leslie, and for all our losses. My nurses and I stand ready to help any way we can."
"Thank you, Lieutenant. As a matter of fact, that raises my next subject, and that's to ask if you'd feel comfortable detaching a few nurses to Mahan."
"Of course, Captain. I'm willing to go, but I'd ask you to allow my nurses a choice." She smiled ironically. "Not that there seems much difference in the relative seaworthiness of either ship, if you'll forgive my saying so."
Matt smiled back at her amid the ensuing chuckles and good-natured indignance. "Absolutely. They can choose, but you may not. The needs of the service, not to mention the needs of my crew, dictate that I break with tradition—as well as virtually every regulation I'm aware of—and appoint you acting medical officer. Under the circumstances, we'll consider it a separate department."
"Yes, sir." She grinned. "I wouldn't enter it in the log, though, if I were you." Matt grinned back.
"Perhaps not." He paused, watching her sit, admiring her poise and apparent calm. Gray was right, he thought. She's something else. He cleared his throat self-consciously and addressed the others. "Next on the list, Lieutenant Dowden is acting exec in Mr. Ellis's place, for as long as he commands Mahan. Rick Tolson is acting navigation officer. Larry? You and Rick better pick assistants. Think hard about it, but give me your recommendations as soon as possible." He turned to Chief Gray. "How about the deck divisions?"
Gray's brow furrowed, and he tucked his hands behind the belt encircling his ample girth. "Like we talked earlier, we're still afloat. But I'm running shorthanded too." The deck division's noncombat occupation was general maintenance, and it served as a labor pool. He glanced at Lieutenant Ellis, who now had some of his men, but it wasn't an accusation, merely a statement of fact. "All the leaks are under control. We welded a lot of seams, which'll have the yard-apes throwin' fits, but there's no way to replace rivets out here. The big holes are all above the waterline. If we don't run into heavy seas, we'll be okay. We're workin' on covering those holes too, but it's slow. Some are pretty big and there's nothing for it but to patch 'em." He cocked an eyebrow. "Not a lot of plate steel just layin' around. If we had time, we could cut patches out of Mahan's aft deckhouse, but for now we're sort of working our way up. I figured the stuff close to the waterline had priority."
Matt was nodding. "Very well. Anything to add?"
"Nothing big. About a thousand little things are in my report. Mostly the same stuff the old girl throws at us every day, times ten."
"Mr. Garrett?"
Lieutenant Garrett now wore a real bandage on the back of his neck to protect his scalded skin. Thankfully, his injuries weren't more serious.
He fidgeted and cleared his throat, and Matt suppressed a smile. He'd been the personification of cool professionalism during the action, but now, in this setting, he was more like a schoolkid than a naval officer.
"Uh, main battery's operational and responding to fire control." He paused and shrugged. "The range finder's wrecked. A big chunk of shrapnel just about chopped it off—but it wasn't any good anyway. The ready ammunition lockers have been replenished. There's something wrong with one of the .50s, but Gunner's Mate Silva says he'll have it working by this afternoon."
"Tell him to get a move on. That one gun represents a quarter of our antiaircraft defense. What about torpedoes? Ensign Sandison's working on them now, correct?"
"Yes, sir. He still doesn't know what the problem was. A connection on the mount, maybe? He was drawing them out of seven, nine, and eleven, and intended to put them in one, three, and five, unless you'd rather disperse them."
"No, that's fine. What's the status on the two torpedoes we picked up in Surabaya?"
"They're not sure what's wrong with them. They were condemned. Hopefully it's something we can fix. One looks pretty beat up, though."
"Thanks, Greg. Have Sandison keep me informed about his progress. Now, let's see. Engineering? Spanky, let's hear from you."
"Yes, sir. Well, we took a beating, sure, but it looks like most everything's under control. We might even get number two boiler back on line. We'll keep her going if the water stays out. Twenty knots, at least." Matt smiled at Spanky's qualifier and started to ask a question, but the engineer wasn't finished. He shook his head and continued in a quiet tone. "Honestly, sir, I don't know how we made it. This old girl'd had enough before the war even started, but I guess she's tougher than we thought. She deserves a lot of credit." He shrugged. "God should get the most, I guess. I didn't see it, but there's talk of a weird squall . . . Anyway, I'm not real damned religious, but that's where most of the credit should go."
Matt controlled a shudder at the thought of the Squall. Somehow, he didn't think God was responsible for that. But who knows? He looked at McFarlane and saw the engineer staring back.
"A lot of credit should go to Captain Reddy."
There was a general murmur of agreement to the unexpected compliment, and Matt felt his face heat. He didn't think he deserved much credit at all. Spanky was a good officer, though; he knew how important it was for the crew to have confidence in their captain. For the captain to have confidence in himself. Deserved or not, he appreciated Spanky's gesture.
"Thank you, Mr. McFarlane." He paused to sip coffee from the cup Juan handed him, breaking eye contact with the engineer. It was his own white porcelain cup, the one he always used in the wardroom. He had another just like it on the bridge. As always, his eyes strayed to the black printing around the side: captain—uss walker—dd-163. With mixed feelings he took a breath.
"We'll stay here for the day, at anchor, and make whatever repairs are practical." He looked back at McFarlane. "Maintain full steam, but I want no smoke. We'll keep double lookouts and the machine gun and threeinch crews will remain at their stations at all times. I know the three-inch isn't good for much, but a puff of black smoke in the air might make enemy planes think twice. I intend to run the strait tonight, as fast as we can manage. Hopefully, we'll have some torpedoes by then. Jim, I know you'd rather go slow, but I want every turn you can make, at least through the strait."
Ellis nodded. "We'll keep up, Skipper."
; "Good. Once again, we'll lead. Stay close, though. There'll be almost no moon, so it'll be dark. Sonar's still out, but we won't waste time zigzagging. The strait's too tight for that anyway. I think, even with all our problems, we have a good chance—if we make it fast and sneaky."
He took another sip of coffee and looked at the faces in the room. He'd rather just ignore the next subject, but he didn't have that choice.
"That brings us to the last item of business." He noticed several people shift uncomfortably. "Everyone knows, in addition to our other problems, there've been . . . strange events. The crew's talking about it, and they have enough to worry about without a bunch of mysteries." He let that sink in for a moment. "On the other hand, if you discourage the talk it'll just make them worry even more. You must all assure the crew by your words and actions that we're taking care of the problem, whatever it is, and it's not something to concern themselves with. Do I make myself clear?"
There were nods.
"That may be easier said than done." Captain Kaufman spoke for the first time. He stepped forward and put his hands on the table. "What's the dope on the radio?"
Matt gritted his teeth. "It's still not working."
"That's not what I hear. I hear it's working fine, but we're not receiving anything but static. Have you tried to transmit?"
Matt looked at him incredulously. "Of course we haven't tried to transmit! We might as well paint ourselves pink and steam through the channel in broad daylight. It's obvious the Japs have carriers between here and Australia. The reports before we left implied they did, and we've since seen carrier planes. That means they're ahead of us and behind, and can easily triangulate our position. It's equally obvious, despite what you've heard, that the radio can't be working—otherwise we'd hear something. They don't know what's wrong with it, but there must be a problem. Checking the radio by giving away our position seems sort of counterproductive, don't you think?" Matt's voice rose as his annoyance grew. "And frankly, Captain Kaufman, as to your earlier statement, if you find it difficult to suppress your fears in front of the men, I prefer you not go around them."
Kaufman's face turned purple. He looked around, surprised to see almost everyone, even the nurses, regarding him with hostility. Only the bandaged ensign from Mahan—Monroe—seemed sympathetic. He barely heard Gray whisper to Lieutenant Garrett: "Ought to be in the chain locker with the Nip." He was practically sputtering with rage, and he started to reply, when they all became aware of a commotion on deck. It might have been going on for a minute or two, but with the confrontation the wardroom hadn't noticed. Now they heard running feet and rising voices.
Bernard Sandison burst into the wardroom, wide-eyed and gasping. "Beg pardon, Skipper, but you better come on deck."
"Are we under attack?"
"No, sir. Not under attack, but . . . just please come and see."
As one, spurred by the ensign's cryptic statements, the assembly crowded for the passageway. "Make way!" the Bosun bellowed. "Make way for the captain!"
All the officers, including Nurse Tucker, scrambled up the ladder to the pilothouse. Everyone else climbed onto the amidships deckhouse to join most of the crew already there, or along the port rail below. In fact, the port side was so crowded that Walker was heeling noticeably. As soon as he gained the bridge, Matt heard Gray bellowing for the men to return to their duties before they capsized the ship. It was no use. For once, even the Bosun's legendary wrath was wasted. Matt snatched his binoculars from Ensign Tolson and looked toward Bali—the direction everyone was pointing and staring. He adjusted the objective slightly.
The fog to the south had almost entirely dissipated and he clearly saw the northeastern coast of Bali less than a mile away. It was a scenic view, about what he'd expected from descriptions he'd heard and pictures he'd seen. Beyond the dark volcanic beach was a rocky shoreline, choked with a lush hedge of vines or brush. Beyond this boundary, a broad coastal plain rose steadily upward to the flanks of a distant mountain. He'd read the slope was terraced and had been for hundreds of years. Mr. Bradford had commented on it as well. He saw no terracing, but everything else seemed as it should. Except one thing. Upon the plain before him, in the middle distance, was a small herd of what could only be described as dinosaurs, grazing slowly along.
Ridiculously, the first thing that popped into his mind was that they were smaller than he would have thought, about the size of Asian elephants. But the long necks and whiplike tails protruding from the otherwise quite elephantine bodies were exactly what he'd have expected of an artist's rendering of, say, a brontosaurus. He heard a small sound and glanced aside.
"Somebody grab Mr. Bradford. He's about to faint."
Jim Ellis leaned close and whispered nervously in his ear. "We're damn sure not in Kansas anymore, Skipper."
Matt grunted distractedly as the amazing creatures ambled unconcernedly along, much like cattle feeding on grass, except these animals took as many leaves from the trees as they did grass from underfoot. "Personally," Matt whispered back, his voice shaky, "I liked the black and white part of that movie the best. Everything that happened once it went to color gave me the creeps."
The Mice filed tiredly back to their stifling lair. There was way too much commotion on deck to rest. No good ever came from leaving their boilers. One of the water tenders looked up as they entered.
"What the hell's going on up there? We run aground or something?
Why are we heeling over?"
Isak looked at him with bleary, disinterested eyes. "Dinosaurs on Bali," he said simply. Then he and his friend lay down next to the hull, where the water outside kept the plates slightly cooler. They wadded up a pair of greasy life jackets for pillows and promptly went to sleep.
All over the ship, men slowly returned to their duties or tried to rest. Some talked nervously among themselves, and others said nothing at all, pondering the implications of this latest mystery. A few might have panicked if not for the steadying influence of the older hands, but mostly the destroyermen took it in stride. It was just one more thing. What was one more thing after all they'd been through? They didn't know what was happening and they knew it wasn't right, but most were too tired to care. Men from Mars flying by on giant blue chickens would probably not have elicited a more prolonged response—but they probably would have been shot at if they came too close.
Dennis Silva was thinking just that. He manned the .50-caliber machine gun on the port side of the amidships deckhouse. He'd been almost finished putting it back together when the commotion began, and he'd been one of the first to see the creatures. Now he stood, still watching, with just a few others. The first group of "bronto-sarries" had moved along, but there was a steady stream of other, equally improbable animals. A smaller group resembling the first ones they'd seen appeared.
"Boy," exclaimed Silva, "I'd sure like to shoot me one of those!" Tom Felts and Paul Stites looked at him.
"What the hell for?" Stites asked incredulously.
Silva shrugged. "Ever'body and ever'thing's been pickin' on us lately. I feel like pickin' on somethin' myself for a change."
Felts shook his head. "I wouldn't pick on one of those damn things. Hell, Dennis, what if they can swim? You'd have prehistoric monsters down on us too! Ain't the Japs enough?"
Stites peered over the side at the water speculatively. "You think them things are really dinosaurs? I mean, there ain't supposed to be dinosaurs on Bali, is there? I thought they all died off."
"'Course there ain't supposed to be none here." Silva guffawed. "There ain't supposed to be none anywhere! All that's supposed to be here is a bunch'a nu-bile young native girls runnin' around without shirts."
Stites and Felts both looked at the island. "Well, where the hell are they?"
"Better ask the Skipper, fellas." Silva's grin went away, and when he spoke again his voice was uncharacteristically subdued. "I bet he don't know either."
For the first time since she could remember, Sandra didn't know what to
do. She didn't have an answer or a solution or even a suggestion. That hit her almost as hard as anything else. Seeing the creatures on Bali did something to her that nothing else had ever accomplished: it shook her sense of pragmatic self-assurance to its core. She was still on the bridge, although she doubted she was supposed to be, but no one asked her to leave. There were no more critical patients to treat, and the seriously injured had been transferred to their berths, where the other nurses and their shipmates fussed over them and tried to make them comfortable. If not for the possibility of air attack, she would have already asked to have them moved on deck for fresh air. Maybe I should move them up, she thought, but the latest shock left her unable to concentrate. She'd always prided herself on her ability to adjust to any situation; that was what good nurses had to do. But this! What was going on?
She looked at the captain. He was deeply involved in a whispered, serious conversation with several officers. After the initial excitement, the ship grew eerily quiet. She looked aft. Now the mist had cleared and the sun beat down once more, and most of the men had resumed their duties, or the perpetual quest for shade. Now and then, however, she saw men glance furtively at the island as if to confirm they'd actually seen what they thought they had. She looked again herself. Sure enough, the bizarre animals were still there. The place was teeming with them. She shuddered. She was not imagining things. If she was, so was everyone else.
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