Destroyermen its-1

by Taylor Anderson

  "Hey, you monkeys!" he shouted. "Stop-o el dinosaur-o now-o! Time to bail! Chop, chop!" The two young 'cats gave very human nods and hopped down.

  "Been picking up the local lingo, I see," Letts commented dryly.

  Isak shrugged. "Yep. Got to, I guess."

  In the launch, Captain Reddy was thoughtful. He was encouraged by how far along the "fuel project" seemed, and if Bradford was right, it was just a matter of finding the right depth at the rig before Walker's bunkers were full to bursting. The thought felt good, even though he couldn't shake his nagging concern. Contrary to what everybody seemed to take for granted, there actually were subtle differences in geography. Nothing pronounced, but enough to make him worry. For example, the land around Baalkpan Bay was higher than he remembered "back home." Less erosion? Lower sea level? Or something else? If everything in the world was different now, why not oil deposits?

  Bradford said it didn't work that way. He said the ground under the well was geologically predisposed to form a reservoir for crude. Matt hoped he was right. In any event, now that he'd been there, he was confident that if there was any oil, it would be found. The strange firemen had everything well in hand. He sighed. Of course, then the refinery had to work. It was one thing to find oil and something else to turn it into fuel they could burn.

  He listened to the others chatting about the wildlife they'd seen as the launch left the river behind and reentered the bay. A few colorful flying reptiles paced the boat and shrieked and swooped at the small fish churned up in its wake. Matt tuned out the conversation and, as he often did of late, found himself thinking about Sandra Tucker as he stared at the feathery whitecaps. He couldn't deny that he was attracted to her.

  Who wouldn't be? For that matter, with so few women and a ship full of men, who, in fact, wasn't attracted to her? In spite of the situation, he really liked her a lot and believed he wasn't unduly influenced by the scarcity of females. He was sure that under normal circumstances he'd have already made a move. But these weren't normal circumstances.

  So far, in spite of everything, the crew had stuck together. There was friction aboard—there always was—but not much more than normal . . . yet. He couldn't imagine how everything fell apart so fast on Mahan. Jim was a good leader and he should have sorted it out. Probably would have if he hadn't been shot. Brister thought the breakdown was due to Kaufman's hysteria and the stress of their ordeal. At all costs, he had to prevent that kind of stress from taking root here. Right now the biggest stress to Walker's crew was a lack of "dames." He honestly believed they'd eventually find more humans, and the two Indiamen that had sailed east so long ago were a solid lead. But in the meantime it was hard to dispel the sense that they were all alone. All alone, with only two women. He'd always believed in leading by example, and regardless of his feelings, he thought it wouldn't be fair to the men if he pressed his suit now. How could he expect them to show restraint if he didn't set the example? At the very least, it would undermine his moral authority—and that was really the only authority he had left. The men sure weren't getting paid. The situation was far too tense to risk jealousy and resentment by chasing one of the only two eligible females.

  He glanced at Alan Letts. Maybe the only eligible female. Letts and Karen Theimer were seeing a lot of each other. Maybe that was why he'd been so industrious of late. Letts had better watch out, though. Matt knew Bernie and Greg were both sweet on the young nurse too. That was probably why his young officers were so formal to each other lately. There'd be trouble down the line, and the more he thought about it, the more disquieted he became. The "dame famine," as the crew referred to the situation, was likely to be more explosive in the long term than any shortage of fuel or ammunition.

  He wished, for the thousandth time, that he hadn't sent the other nurses off in Mahan. Not just because of the dame famine, of course, but their presence might have taken a little pressure off. What it boiled down to was that somehow they had to find more people, and the sooner the better. He owed it to his men. He took a deep breath. But that would have to wait, and in regard to Sandra, he would have to wait as well. And so would Mahan, wherever she'd gone—at least until they had fuel to search for her—or other humans. Right now they had a war to prepare for and to fight. That was a kind of stress his men were accustomed to and one he knew they could handle.

  "Some kind of regatta or somethin' goin' on today?" shouted Tony Scott over the engine and the spray they were making. Captain Reddy grunted and looked where the coxswain indicated. Across the bay, fishing boats pelted toward town as fast as they could. The growing mass of boats seemed to gather in all they came across, and sheets flew as more fishermen came about or set a new tack toward the wharves. On instinct, Matt glanced at his ship. He saw her now; the off-white experimental gray that the Chief had mixed was clear against the riotous color of the city and jungle beyond. Perplexed, he looked back toward the mouth of the bay and the Makassar Strait.

  Standing in toward them under a fair press of sail was one of the red-hulled Indiamen of the Grik. All over the bay, the large conch-like shells the People used to sound the alarm began to blow, and the men in the boat heard the dull bass hum even over the exhaust of the engine.

  "Step on it, Scott! To the ship, as fast as you can!"

  Sandra peered over the top of her book as her next patient entered the wardroom. She was reading a battered copy of Henry Thomas's Wonder Book of History, Science, Nature, Literature, Art, Religion, Philosophy, which was making the rounds. It reminded her a little of Courtney Bradford: engagingly pompous and full of a little information on quite a lot. The old book came from the large, eccentric library of the dead surgeon, Stevens. She closed it and regarded her visitor with raised eyebrows.

  "Dennis Silva, as I live and breathe."

  Silva merely stood, staring stoically straight ahead and she looked at him more closely. The refit had exacted a toll on the destroyermen and their Lemurian helpers, mostly minor injuries and torch burns, but there were occasional serious hurts—crushed fingers and lacerations requiring stitches, for example. The complaints constituted a steady enough stream that she and Karen stood alternating watches in the wardroom, tending the wounded as they presented themselves. They usually shooed them back to their duties. The big gunner's mate had no obvious injury, however.

  "Well?" she demanded impatiently. "What's the matter with you?"

  Silva's face reddened even beneath his short, dense beard and savage tan. "'M sick, ma'am."

  She looked at him incredulously. "Sick! You?" Silva's constitution was legendary. His record showed his only previous appearances before the ship's surgeon had been of the type to be expected of a rambunctiously male Asiatic Fleet destroyerman. She doubted that was his problem today, although with Silva . . . There had been rumors some of the men were experimenting with local females. Both species were certainly adventurous enough to try. She shuddered involuntarily and shook her head to clear the thought.

  "Sick how?" she asked. Then she felt a chill. So far they'd been lucky, but she lived in perpetual dread of some unidentifiable plague sweeping the ship, something they had no immunity to.

  Silva actually looked at his feet. "Got the screamers," he muttered.

  "The screamers?"

  He nodded. "Been in the head since yesterday afternoon, and I . . . kinda need to go now." Her eyes flicked down the passageway behind her, and he looked at her as if she were nuts. That was the officers' head! "I, ah, can hold it."

  "What seems to be the cause of your discomfort? Something you ate?"

  "Well, you see, tobacco's worth its weight in gold, and that damn Chack—" Sandra slapped her forehead and felt a smile of relief cross her face.

  Silva's expression became more wooden at her sudden lack of compassion.

  "Has had you running around chewing on every dead leaf he can convince you to stick in your mouth!" she finished for him and laughed out loud.

  "Oh, that's rich! I heard about that! You should watch out fo
r that boy! He's not the `simpleminded wog' some of you guys think he is!" She giggled, then looked thoughtful. "It seems our Mr. Chack has a wicked sense of humor!"

  She made a mental note to tell Chack that some things that didn't bother Lemurians at all might be poisonous to humans—and that he'd better grow eyes in the back of his head and expect retaliation.

  "I'm sure you'll be all right eventually, Mr. Silva. I know your . . . experiments have been solely in the interests of science and the benefit of your fellow man, but why not take this opportunity to liberate yourself from your disgusting habit?"

  Silva's expression could have been described as plaintive in a lesser mortal. "But what are we supposed to do? No tobacco, almost no coffee, no . . . um." He paused, but quickly recovered himself. "It was bad enough fightin' the Nips, and now this? It's more than a fella can stand without a chew!"

  Sandra nodded slowly. He had a point. Almost everyone aboard used tobacco. She knew that wasn't the only . . . frustration, but she'd noticed tempers flaring more easily, and there'd even been some fights. Despite her feelings on the subject, there was morale to consider. She sighed. "Very well, Mr. Silva. I'll look into it. But I warn you, there may not be anything to replace tobacco."

  He nodded gratefully. "Just as long as somebody's lookin'. Hell, these

  'Cats don't even have betel nuts!"

  Secretly, Sandra expected they probably did use some kind of stimulant besides the fermented polta fruit. Seep was already well known and much used when the men went ashore on the limited liberties Matt allowed, but it had some undesirable aftereffects. She still wasn't satisfied that it was even safe for humans, given the severity and duration of the hangovers, but Captain Reddy was right. Never give an order you know will be disobeyed. The only way to keep them from drinking the stuff was to confine everyone to the ship, which was unfair and would be worse for morale than the lack of tobacco.

  As a replacement for the noxious weed . . . She again determined to speak to Chack. She was willing to bet that he, and many other young Lemurians, were enjoying their joke too much to share the knowledge if there was one. She would ask, she promised herself. And warn. If the rumors were true, Silva's pranks were not funny.

  "Now, as to your complaint—" She held out her hands in resignation.

  "I don't even have anything left to relieve the symptoms. You'll just have to let it run its course. Be sure to stay properly hydrated, though."

  "Hydrated? What's that?" he inquired darkly.

  "Water. Drink plenty of water!" She paused. "But only ship's water. I don't even want to think about what the local water will do to you yet.

  Talk about the screamers!" She made another mental note to see McFarlane again. As long as they were burning the number four boiler, the condensers would manufacture fresh water in small quantities. Barely enough to drink, but nothing else. Everyone was constantly reminded not to drink anything that even might have local water in it. If they ever ran entirely out of fuel, they'd have to figure out something else. Boil local water, she supposed. At least there was local water and they could use it for cooking—and bathing—thank God!

  Silva's expression became pinched. "I might, ah, better visit the officers' head after all, ma'am. Don't think I'll make it aft."

  Sandra nodded and smiled. "By all means."

  The general alarm began to sound.

  The launch's occupants scurried onto the pier and raced for the gangway. They were nearly trampled by Lemurians scampering everywhere on the docks. The huge draft beasts bawled as their drivers whipped their flanks in panic. One of the elephantine brontosauruses bugled in fear at the commotion and reared up on its hind legs, upsetting the cart it was hitched to and then crushing it under its haunches. The driver barely jumped clear. Somehow, they managed to weave through the terrified crowd and run up the gangway. No side party waited and they hastily saluted the colors.

  Chief Gray met them, puffing. "I have the deck, sir, I suppose," he said.

  "Mr. Dowden left about an hour ago with Spanky to talk to the yard-apes.

  Should be back any time."

  "Never mind. Single up all lines and make all preparations for getting under way."

  Gray glanced about helplessly at the chaos around them for just an instant, then saluted. "Aye, aye, Captain."

  Matt turned to Shinya. "Marines are on parade today?" Shinya nodded. "How long to fetch Alden and a company of Marines?" Shinya scanned the mob choking the wharf and the pathways into the city. He shook his head. One Grik ship had appeared in the bay and the population acted like the enemy was loose among them.

  "Sergeant Alden may already be trying to make his way here, but to go get him now? Impossible."

  "I concur. Try to make it to Big Sal. Ask Keje for a hundred of his best warriors and get them here as fast as you can!" Matt didn't even ponder the irony of the Japanese officer's salute as he returned it and watched Shinya race back down the gangway. He turned and ran to the bridge.

  "Captain on deck!" shouted Lieutenant Garrett. Matt nodded and stepped quickly on the bridgewing with his binoculars in hand. The Grik ship's dash toward the city had slowed, and it was practically hove to about four miles away. As if studying them. This ran contrary to everything he'd heard about their tactics. He'd expected them to charge right in.

  "All stations report manned and ready, Captain," Garrett announced.

  "Very well. Prepare to get under way."

  Garret seemed surprised. "But Captain . . . the fuel? We can sink him from here."

  "I know, Mr. Garrett, but he's acting like he knows it too." He barked a dry laugh. "I think our reputation has preceded us. Besides, I don't think he's by himself." As he watched, brightly colored signal flags raced up the Grik's mast. "Yep," he said. "I bet there's at least one more hanging outside the mouth of the bay. Have engineering light number three and honk the horn. We'll give anyone close enough five more minutes to make it back on board."

  "Light number three, sir?" Garrett cringed. Now he knew their fuel wouldn't outlast the day.

  Matt sighed. "I'm afraid so. We also have to stop whoever that one signaled to. We can only make about ten knots on one boiler, but with this breeze picking up, maybe more out in the strait, I bet those Grik can make twelve." They'd taken on firewood for just such an emergency. He hoped they wouldn't have to use it.

  "Aye, aye, Captain. Sound the horn, light number three, and cast off all lines in five minutes."

  Two minutes later, Shinya and Keje asked permission to come on the bridge. Matt felt a surge of warmth at the sight of his Lemurian friend.

  Keje was dressed as Matt had first seen him, with his copper-scaled armor and a broad-bladed scota at his side. Shinya had found the time to buckle on his longer, thinner version that Sandison made from one of the cutlasses. It wasn't exactly a katana, but he could use it like one now that the guard had been cut down and the handle extended. Shinya still mourned his own ceremonial sword—lost when his destroyer went down—and the cutlass was a crude replacement. But he'd been moved by Bernie's gift.

  Larry Dowden raced onto the bridge, breathing hard. In the background Matt heard the commotion of Lemurian warriors thundering aboard amid bellowed commands from the Bosun. "Sorry, Skipper," Larry apologized. "We nearly didn't make it. Spanky's aboard too—headed for the fireroom. He said with his two best guys ashore, he better bat the burners himself."

  "Very well. Cast off the stern line. Left full rudder! Port engine ahead one-third!"

  With a vibrating moan, Walker came to life beneath his feet once more. Ever so slowly, amid a churning froth of dark, musty-smelling seawater that sloshed up around the port propeller guard, the destroyer's stern eased away from the dock. "All stop. Rudder amidships. Cast off bow line!" Matt paused until he saw his last command obeyed. "All back one-third!" With a distinct, juddering groan, Walker backed away from the pier and Big Sal, tied up just ahead. When they'd made a suitable gap, Matt spoke again. "Right full rudder, all ahead two-thirds."
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  Throughout the maneuver Keje was silent. Now he just shook his head. "Amazing," he said aloud. He turned his inscrutable gaze upon the captain. "I've brought you one hundred of my finest warriors, Cap-i-taan Reddy." He grinned. "All were anxious to fight, of course, but I had the most trouble limiting their numbers when they learned they would go to battle on your magnificent ship!"

  Matt clapped him on the shoulder. "They may be less enthusiastic if we have to paddle home. We really don't have the fuel for this!"

  "Ah!" Keje sniffed and blinked. "A nothing! Once again we'll kill Grik together!"

  Greasy black smoke belched briefly from the number three funnel and Walker gathered way. Matt looked through his binoculars. "Oh, boy, that's done it! He's going about. Piling on more sail."

  Keje stood beside him, binoculars raised to his eyes as well. Unobtrusively, Larry Dowden helped him fold them to fit his face and showed him how to focus. Keje exclaimed in delight but continued to stare at the enemy. "Yes. He's running. I see the signal flags myself." He looked at Matt. "Twice now I have seen the enemy flee, and both times because of your ship. The one that escaped after the great fight must have passed word to others, or perhaps that's the very ship that eluded us. Regardless, there's clearly another in the strait, and beyond that, perhaps another.

  They must all be destroyed! If they carry news of Baalkpan to the place where they assemble fleets, they will return in force. We are not ready for that." Keje's ears and tail twitched with annoyance. "I am sure you must agree after witnessing that disgraceful display on the waterfront."

  "They'll be ready, Keje," Matt assured him. "What I saw on the dock was the natural reaction of people who've suddenly been confronted with their worst nightmare. Remember, for a lot of people in Baalkpan, the Grik weren't real until today. They were creatures of myth—boogeymen.

  They've never faced them. They've never seen with their own eyes the terrible way they make war. Now they know the enemy is real and we haven't been training them for hoots." Matt gestured out the windows at the distant Grik. "In a way, this might be just what we needed to make the land folk take things seriously."