Destroyermen its-1

by Taylor Anderson

  "Beggin' your pardon, sir, but that got us thinkin'. We was both wildcatters when we was kids. Oklahoma, Texas, Colorado, Wyoming . . . We brought in a lot of wells before we got in the Navy."

  "We didn't like it, though, neither of us. Too much damn sun and dust—and heat too, but heat ain't all that bad. That's why we got in the Navy, though," put in Isak, and what passed for a tentative smile crossed his face. "We know a thing or two about heavy machinery, but we like burnin' oil better'n findin' it."

  Gilbert looked at his partner with an air of bitter resignation, but nodded agreement. "We got to thinkin'. If things is like they say, then if we're gonna keep our boilers fed with oil, I guess we'll have to drill for it." Gilbert took a breath. "We know how, and if that's what it takes, well . . . we know how."

  Spanky looked at them with surprise and then slowly nodded. "Thanks, boys. I'll remember that."

  Matt and Sandra dried their hair with towels from the officers' head. Matt's hair took only an instant, short as it was, and he watched Sandra, drying and brushing her long, almost-brass-colored strands. He'd known she was attractive, but at that moment, arms over her head, wet blouse tout against her bosom, she was the prettiest woman he'd ever seen and he resisted an electric urge to take the brush himself. Suddenly he realized she'd caught him staring and his ears burned. The expression on her face was . . . what? Fortunately, just then Bradford swept into the wardroom. He was still excited about what they'd seen.

  "Amazing! Such jaws! I'm certain you're thankful we didn't hit the larger one, Captain Reddy! Of course you are!"

  "I think we should all be thankful for that, Mr. Bradford," Matt replied, both grateful and resentful of the intrusion.

  Bradford looked quizzically from one to the other, for the first time sensing tension between them, and attempted to quell his enthusiasm. "Quite so. Forgive me. I do get carried away. I've not forgotten the seriousness of the situation. In fact, it's been foremost on my mind. I've done a bit of preliminary research—oh, for my office library!—and I may have a few helpful suggestions for your Mr. Letts tomorrow."

  "I'm glad to hear it."

  "Yes. Bear in mind, however, anything I suggest is qualified by the assumption that we are, well, where we were, for lack of any better way to phrase it."

  "I think you may safely assume that, Mr. Bradford," said Matt. "Our charts of this area are pathetic. Some actually date from the eighteenth century. Depths were all wrong even before . . . Anyway, I don't think there's ever been a proper survey unless the Dutch did one. That being said, there's enough agreement over landmarks and positions that we know to be accurate that I don't think there's any question we are, as you put it, where we were."

  Sandra set the brush on the table and ran her fingers through her stilldamp hair. She spoke for the first time and her lip quivered slightly. "That still leaves the question we've all been avoiding." There was a trace of bitterness in her voice. "What happened? I wish someone would think of something, even if it's wrong. It's driving me nuts, and I'm coping well compared to some. Ensign Theimer won't even come out of the cabin. Nobody wants to talk about it! I know everyone's afraid"—she looked at Matt with eyes reflecting a strange mix of accusation, respect . . . and something else—"even you, Captain. But everyone just keeps going as if nothing unusual's happened at all."

  Matt smiled a sad, gentle smile. "Thank God they do, Lieutenant Tucker. You're right. We are scared. And between the three of us in this room," he confessed woodenly, "I'm more scared than anybody. But we'll continue to do our duty because we have to. It's all we've got to hang on to and it's our only hope to survive."

  Bradford shifted uncomfortably and Sandra covered her face with her hands for a moment, but nodded. "Of course, Captain. I'm sorry. I'm just . . . tired." She looked up and her eyes were rimmed with red. "This crew—everyone—is exhausted, but I've just about emptied the dispensary of sleeping pills."

  Matt's eyes narrowed, but she quickly dispelled his concern with a flick of her wrist, and the corner of her mouth quirked upward. "Oh, don't worry. There weren't many on board to start with and it's not an epidemic. I made it sound worse than it is. If the truth were known, half these guys would conk out if you gave them a chair to sit on in front of a firing squad." She shook her head with genuine admiration. "It beats me how most stay so calm." She frowned. "Not all have, though, and some you'd think have dealt with it really haven't." She sighed. "Like me, I guess. It's like a nightmare, or some H. G. Wells or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle novel."

  "Well," said Matt, "since the charts are correct, that eliminates The Time Machine, according to you, Mr. Bradford. Also, there's the matter of furry people with tails on ships bigger than the Hornet. That leaves The Lost World our most likely scenario." Sandra looked at him, surprised that he'd read those works.

  "Actually," said Courtney Bradford, "I think you're both wrong."

  "So what do you think?" asked Matt with a half smile.

  Bradford looked solemn. "I don't know yet. I expect an epiphany once we've done more than just sail about. The water looks quite the same as before, you know." There was a hint of accusation in his tone.

  "Quite the same except for the fish," said Sandra dryly.

  Bradford bowed his head to her, conceding the point. "Indeed." He paused and looked down at the table, then glanced at them both. "Have you ever considered how your life might have been if you'd done something different? What a monumental impact some choice or deed can have on the rest of your life? Captain, what if you hadn't joined the Navy? What would you be like today? Would you even be the same person? Some people think, if they think about it at all, that they'd be the same, just doing something different. I disagree. I believe it's our actions, as well as the context and environment in which those actions take place, that make us what we are. But what if? What if your mother had never met your father? Your grandmother, your grandfather? What if the United States had lost its revolutionary war? What if the Roman Empire had never fallen—or never existed? What would the world be like today? Would it be much the same, except for that one small thing?"

  Neither Matt nor Sandra answered. Matt just looked at him with a tired, speculative expression. Sandra's face wore no expression at all, but the clenching muscles in her jaw betrayed a growing tension.

  "I think the world would be entirely different," Bradford continued quietly, "and the more distance between the moment of change and the present, the more profound the differences would be."

  "I've . . . studied history a little," Matt said self-consciously. "I've often wondered `what if ' about a lot of things. I suppose every historian does, whether they admit it or not. What if the South had won the Battle of Gettysburg, for example, or that Serb hadn't shot the archduke of Austria? Things might've been different. Maybe a lot different." He looked at the Australian. "What's that got to do with anything?"

  "Maybe nothing," said Courtney Bradford in a cryptic, falsely cheerful tone. "Maybe everything."

  The sun rose sharp and fierce in a cloudless sky. The storm, if it could be called that, was over, leaving only a slight chop as Walker eased back into the gap between Bali and Menjangan Island. All through the night they'd searched but found no sign of Mahan, and everyone harbored a forlorn hope they'd find her where they left her. Matt considered it possible, even likely, that if Jim couldn't nurse his ship all the way to their rendezvous, he'd bring her back here, thinking it the first place Matt would look. Unfortunately, when they cleared the shoals and nosed into their previous anchorage, they were disappointed.

  Bali remained a clear reminder that they were lost to the world they knew, its shores still teeming with unlikely creatures and its unterraced coastline a vast, panoramic plain broken by copses of unfamiliar palmlike trees. Again the crew lined the rails to stare. Unlike the sea—normally a destroyerman's natural element, but now one that inspired dread—the land seemed populated by comparatively pastoral creatures. They all remembered the lizard that bit Leo Davis and made him so
sick, but that was on Menjangan Island. Maybe they weren't on Bali. The pygmy "brontosauruses" and other apparent herbivores browsed, cowlike, in full view and in broad daylight, seemingly content and unafraid of predators.

  They crept closer. The outdated charts showed plenty of water, but Matt figured two hundred yards was close enough, and they dropped the hook once more. He peered at the shore and Courtney Bradford already had his "own" binoculars up. Matt wasn't sure whose they'd originally been, but possession being what it was, he doubted the owner would get them back. He shook his head with a little grin.

  "Lieutenant Dowden, you have the deck. We'll remain here for the day and hopefully Mahan'll show up. Double lookouts at all times. I'm not really worried about Japs anymore, but anchored, we can't maneuver. I think we've had enough surprises for a while. In the meantime, you'll plot a course for Surabaya. If Mahan doesn't show by dusk, we'll proceed there." He looked at Bradford and saw the desolate expression. His grin returned. "Mr. Bradford, Mr. Letts, and a small party will accompany me ashore. Have Campeti break out Springfields, sidearms, and ammunition for a party of eight. Hmm, better make that ten pistols, and throw in a tommy gun and one of the BARs. We'll leave two men and the Thompson with the boat."

  He studied the contrast between Bradford's excited happiness and Lieutenant Dowden's horror. He chuckled. "Don't worry, Larry, we won't wander off. In fact, I don't intend to leave sight of the ship. It's time we saw face-to-face what we're up against. But if we get in over our heads, be ready to blow the hell out of anything we can't handle. Understood?"

  Dowden swallowed. "Yes, sir. Aye, aye, sir."

  Silva hefted a BAR and a bandolier of ammunition. He flashed his friends a toothy grin. "I'm goin' a'huntin'!" he said as he took his place with the other members of the shore party, climbing down into the whaleboat. They were Carl Bashear, Mack Marvaney, Glen Carter, and Alfred Vernon. Tony Scott and Fred Reynolds would remain with the boat on the beach. They were in it now, waiting for the others. Silva watched Marvaney climb down ahead of him. His expression was wooden, almost vacant. "Cheer up, Mack!" he said. "It'll be a hoot!" Marvaney glanced up at him and smiled, but the expression never reached his eyes.

  Reynolds stood in the bow with his Springfield at the ready, and Scott fiddled with the throttle, a Thompson slung on his shoulder. Blue smoke rose from the idling motor as one by one the party descended the rungs welded to the side of the ship. The captain went last and he paused before he did, looking briefly at the faces nearby. Lieutenant Garrett wore an anxious expression, and Matt winked.

  "You and Larry take care of my ship, hear?" His eyes flicked toward number three. It was manned, and already trained to port. Stites was its captain and he met Matt's gaze with a confident nod. He nodded back and looked at Garrett. "Carry on, Lieutenant," he said and disappeared over the side. As soon as he stepped into the boat and found a seat, Scott advanced the throttle. With a gurgling rumble they left Walker's comforting side and steered for the mysterious shore.

  Immediately, they felt the bumping, and several men exchanged nervous glances. Even Silva gave a start when something hit the hull under his foot. They knew it must be the vicious silvery fish—or something like them—but fortunately nothing bigger saw fit to taste the boat. In spite of the heat, gooseflesh crept along Matt's arms at the very thought of falling overboard. The memory of the feeding frenzy for the shipwrecked Japanese was vivid.

  There was a breeze out of the south-southwest and the sea was still choppy. Little packets of spray misted them as they neared land. The sky was almost painfully bright and clear, and its contrast with the shoaling water became less and less distinct. The greens of vegetation were more or less as they should have been and the sun was as bright and hot as always. Letts tried to keep his lotion-smeared skin under the shade of a wide straw hat. The normalcy of the scene only accentuated the striking abnormality of their situation and the impossible creatures grazing along on the coastal plain ahead.

  There were no breakers, only a gentle surf washing onto a beach of gray-black volcanic gravel. The bumping subsided and then stopped completely a few dozen yards from shore. All the same, no one was anxious to step into the water, regardless how shallow. Scott skillfully nosed the whaleboat through the surf until they felt a crunchy resistance as it slid to a stop. For a moment everyone looked at the few yards of water between them and land. They could actually see the bottom, but there was nervous hesitation all the same. With a short bark of a laugh, Silva hitched up his gun belt and hopped over the side. The other men sheepishly did the same and Matt stepped up through the empty seats, jumped out into the shallow surf, and waded ashore with outward unconcern. Letts and Marvaney brought up the rear. Reynolds and Scott carried a line and began looking for something to tie it to.

  "You men stay here," said the captain. "Keep a sharp lookout and don't goof around. We won't be far and if we hear you shoot, we'll come running. If you have to, cut your cable and clear off the beach, but hang close enough to come back for us. If you hear us shoot, stay here and prepare to shove off. Understood?"

  "Aye, aye, sir," they answered in unison.

  Bradford was already hurrying excitedly away from the beach with a couple of hesitant men behind. Matt sighed and raised his voice. "We'll all stick together, if you please!"

  They marched inland in a loose column of twos, watching their flanks with care. Matt had grown up around weapons and had hunted all his life, so the Springfield he carried was a familiar and welcome companion. Especially now. He and Bradford walked side by side at the front of the column, looking at their surroundings. The grass was deep, waist high in places, and the broad, spiny leaves reminded Matt of johnsongrass. There were no brambles or thorns or such, but the grass was distinctly uncomfortable to walk through. Maybe more like South Texas cordgrass, he thought. Ahead was the first herd of the animals that looked like brontosauruses. They fed on the leaves of strange-looking palms that stood in a large clump. The way they moved and the sounds they made seemed entirely appropriate and very elephantlike. Any similarity ended there. Their necks were as long as their bodies, and they stood stripping vegetation much higher than any elephant ever could have.

  There were about a dozen of the animals of all sizes in the group, and as the men drew nearer, they paid them no heed. The shore party slowed their pace as they approached, but made no effort to conceal themselves. At seventy-five yards they were finally noticed, but only in passing, and without alarm. A few animals momentarily stopped their contented feeding to look in their direction. With slow, stupid, cowlike expressions, they regarded the invaders, then resumed their ceaseless meal.

  "Not real concerned, are they?" Matt observed quietly.

  "Perhaps they're unaccustomed to predators large enough to be a threat," theorized Bradford, "or they consider the size and strength of their herd sufficient to ward off danger. May we get still closer?" Matt looked around. There was nothing on their flanks, just knee-deep grass stretching for a distance in either direction. He could see the boat and the men they'd left with it, less than a quarter mile away. Beyond was Walker, framed by an achingly beautiful panorama, Menjangan in the background.

  "A little closer, I suppose."

  They crept slowly forward. Instinctively, nearly everyone stooped into a semi-crouch as they walked, their subconscious minds insisting that nothing as comparatively small as they should ever stalk anything as big as the creatures before them without making some effort to conceal themselves. All except Courtney Bradford. He remained entirely erect, with his binoculars glued to his face. "Oh, my," he repeated over and over.

  At fifty yards Matt was about to call a halt when suddenly every animal in the herd stopped eating and their small heads pivoted on giraffelike necks simultaneously. The motion reminded him absurdly of antelopes and the way whole herds often changed direction as if by preplanned command.

  "Uh-oh," said Letts from just behind. One of the biggest animals in the group appeared to gather itself and stre
tched its neck to full extension. Its sides heaved and a tremendous shrill bugling sound erupted. Other necks extended, and within seconds all the creatures were bugling and bellowing together.

  "Okay, people, let's ease back a little."

  Everywhere across the plain, groups of animals stared, and sounded off as well. Other creatures, the shape of rhinos, but with bony, spike-studded crests behind their heads, also began trumpeting, and one group tossed their heads and trotted to a more distant herd of brontosauruses and filled gaps in the defensive line they'd established. Together now, both groups raged thunderous defiance at the destroyermen. More interspecies alliances sprang up among the scattered herd groups. "Amazing!" Bradford gasped.

  The big bull from the closest group stomped and pawed aggressively at the ground. A cloud of dust rose around him and saplings were cast aside.

  "Back away," ordered the captain. He'd never seen anything like this, but whatever was going on, they were vastly outnumbered and ridiculously outmassed. Walker's guns could break up a charge if the distant creatures made one, but the nearest herd was too close for that, and he had no illusions about how effective their small arms would be. A .30-06 could kill an Asian elephant if the shot was placed just right, but where do you "place" a shot in a brontosaurus? "Mr. Bradford, let's go."

  Reluctantly, the Australian turned to face him. His gaze froze, however, on something beyond Matt's shoulder and his face drained of color. Matt spun, and there, not twenty yards away, eight large lizards rose from the grass, poised as if to attack. They looked vaguely like the Menjangan lizards except they wore dun-colored fur, or possibly downy feathers, and standing upright was clearly their natural posture. They were formed in a loose semicircle that effectively blocked the men's retreat. Behind him, the bull still rioted and one of the "lizards"—the leader perhaps—opened its mouth in a silent snarl, baring a horrifying array of razor-sharp teeth. Wicked talons lengthened the four long fingers of each outstretched "hand." The creature shifted its weight like a cat about to pounce. At that instant, from the beach came the distinctive bra-ba-ba-ba-ba-bap! of a Thompson and the deeper crack of a Springfield. Matt discovered he had plenty of adrenaline left, after all.