Maelstrom

CHAPTER 2

For the rest of the morning they crept carefully along, the Hunter in the lead, sometimes on all fours, tail twitching tensely behind him. Occasionally he paused, studying the ground disturbance in the dense carpet of decaying leaves and brush. Sometimes he motioned them to silence and listened, perfectly still, often for a considerable time. Silva grew certain that the ’Cat was using his nose as much as his ears. Ultimately, almost reluctantly it seemed, he’d move on. During one such respite, he gathered the eight others around him and spoke in a whisper that seemed almost a shout. Strangely, for once there were no raucous cries or any of the other sounds they’d grown accustomed to. Their quarry had passed recently indeed.

“We close,” he hissed. “He pass this way soon ago. He know we come; he search for place to spring trap.” The others, even Dennis, looked nervously around. “No, not here. He need more space. Maybe be clearing close ahead. He be there.”

The jungle slowly came back to life, and even at their careful pace, the expected clearing soon appeared. It was much bigger than they’d expected, perhaps a hundred yards wide and longer than they could tell from where they stood. Blackened stumps, and new, fresh leaves testified to a recent lightning fire. They squinted for a moment in the dazzling sunlight, accustomed to the gloom of the trail, but the sun soon passed behind a cloud. The midafternoon showers-so common this time of year-awaited only the inevitable buildup. A dull, distant grumble of thunder echoed in the clearing. Silva unslung the BAR and raised it to the ready.

“No,” pronounced the Hunter. “He not be so near opening. As I say, he want get us all. That need more room, I think. We go down main trail through burn. Where trail pass near jungle on either side, that where he strike.”

“Are you suggesting he’ll employ a strategy?” questioned Bradford, amazed.

“You ask, ‘he plan this?’ I let you judge. Super lizard is greatest hunter on all Borno. He not stupid.” He looked meaningfully at Silva’s BAR. “I not stupid. You magic weapons kill er so slowly, but with increasing speed, Silva got his “stately collapse.” It almost fell on top of him. The earth shuddered as the monster toppled lifelessly to the ground amid the sharp crackle of its own breaking bones. The riddled head struck less than six feet from where Dennis stood, and he was festooned with a splatter of gore and snot.

Silva almost fell to his knees, but somehow managed to keep his feet. Angrily slamming the cutlass back in its scabbard-to hide his shaking hands-he whirled and faced a grinning Paul Stites, as the gunner’s mate rushed to him.

“What the hell’d you do that for?” he yelled, his voice filled with indignant wrath. “Goddamn it, I was just gettin’ to the good part! What’s the matter with you?” Yanking his cutlass back out, he stomped over to the head until he stared down at its remaining, unblinking eye. The thing seemed dead, but its abdomen still heaved weakly, and bloody bubbles oozed from its nostrils. He touched the eye with the sharp tip of his blade, pushing until the orb popped and a viscous fluid welled forth. The creature didn’t stir.

“That’s for chasin’ us all over kingdom come and scarin’ these poor cat-monkeys half to death,” he said. Then he drove the blade deeper, feeling with the point. Finally he shoved it in almost to the hilt, and the ragged breathing abruptly stopped.

“That’s for Tony Scott,” he muttered darkly. “That’s for killin’ my friend.”

“Wish we had a camera,” Stites said languidly, slowly exhaling a blue cloud of smoke.

“Who cares about cameras; just gimme a damn bullet, will ya?” Silva pleaded. He and Stites were lounging on top of the dead monster, sharing a carefully hoarded cigarette, while Bradford-quite recovered-scampered around the beast, pacing its length and talking excitedly with the Hunter, who’d appeared in the cut soon after the shooting died away.

“Why?”

“Because I want one, damn it!” He sighed. “Look, shithead, I shot myself dry, see? I’m totally out of ammo! Right now that gives me the creeps like I never had before. So just shut up and give me a bullet, before I beat you to death!”

Stites smirked and opened his bolt, then stared into his own magazine well in horror. Frantically slapping his pockets with increased panic brought no satisfaction. “Jeez, Dennis! I’m empty too!”

Silva was grimly quiet a moment, considering the long trek back to the refinery and the boat. Suddenly he brightened. “Hey, Mr. Bradford!” Courtney paused his examination and looked inquiringly at him. He had every reason to be well disposed toward the big gunner’s mate. After all, he’d gotten quite close to the monstrous creature and witnessed all sorts of movement before it was killed. Silva only hoped Bradford could protect him from the worst of his captain’s wrath. “You got plenty of bullets left, right?”

Bradford sheepishly hefted the Krag. “Indeed. I’m certain I fired several times, there at the end, but somehow I still have as many rounds as I set out with. Strange.”

“Musta had some extras an’ thumbed ’em in without thinkin’. t="1em"›

“Nothing. Right standard rudder, all ahead one-third.”

“Right standard rudder, all ahead one-third,” Kutas replied. “Recommend course two seven five.”

“Make it so. Reynolds, get the sea and anchor detail out of the rain and pass the word for the bosun and exec to join me on the bridge. Spanky too.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

To Sandra Tucker, standing on the old fitting-out pier, the new, light gray paint covering the battered old destroyer couldn’t hide her many defects, but it did quickly blend with the driving rain. She felt a lump the size of her fist tighten in her chest as the ship grew ever more wraithlike and ethereal, and she wondered if she’d ever see it again. If she’d ever see Matthew Reddy again. She said a quick, fervent prayer for the ship and all those aboard her-and one in particular. With a sigh, she turned and melted into the throng and made her way through the dripping, awning-covered bazaar, back to her own duties at the hospital.

Lieutenant Larry Dowden, Walker ’s executive officer, reached the bridge first, water running from the brim of his hat. Dowden was of average height and spare, but the young towheaded officer from Tennessee had stepped into his new job with energy and professionalism. He’d been a good choice to replace Lieutenant Ellis, Matt reflected once again, tossing him the towel. Soon afterward, Chief Bosun’s Mate Fitzhugh Gray clomped up the metal ladder and joined them.

“Mornin’, Skipper.” He didn’t salute because technically, as soon as he stepped out of the rain, he was no longer “outdoors.”

Gray was a bear of a man, close to sixty, who’d gone a little to seed on the China Station before the war, but had since trimmed back down and muscled up considerably. He, at least, had thrived on all the activity and adventure they’d experienced since the Squall. He’d always demonstrated a clear-indeed, profound-understanding of the practical; that had perhaps been the very definition of his duty as Walker ’s senior noncommissioned officer. Unlike many in the Navy who had the rank without the skill, Gray had the skill in sufficient measure to apply it beyond the insular world of Walker ’s deck. As Spanky could, when it came to anything mechanical, Gray brought absolute moral authority to any discussion regarding what people were capable of, and his uncannily accurate assessments now included Lemurians as well.

“Mornin’, Boats.”

“I ran into Juan on the way up here and he said he’d be along directly,” Gray said, referring to Juan Marcos, the Filipino mess attendant who had, for all intents and purposes, become Matt’s personal steward. It was never discussed, and it certainly wasn’t official, but that was how it wound up. Juan had seen to that. “He’s bringin’ coffee,” Gray added ominously, but with an entirely innocent expression-quite an accomplishment for him. Matt grimaced. Juan wasn’t good with coffee, never had been. Somehow he couldn’t destroy the stuff that passed for coffee here as thoroughly as he had the “real” stuff, but it still wasn’t exactly good.

“Maybe…”

Walker would’ve spent the war towin’ targets… or bein’ one, and most of her crew wouldn’t have been good for much else either. After that last big fight with Amagi, when we got sucked up by the Squall, none of that mattered anymore.”

A stormy frown creased Gray’s face. “I hate the Japs for what they done to us, and I hope wherever ‘home’ is, our boys are kickin’ hell out of ’em. But we wouldn’t have been helpin’ much, even if we were alive. Back there, Walker wouldn’t have made any difference.” His frown shifted into an expression of determination. “In this world, in this fight against those damn Griks, she has made a difference, and so have all her people. With God’s help, maybe she will again.”

“God’s, and Spanky McFarlane’s,” Matt agreed quietly, referring to Walker ’s engineering officer, who still hadn’t arrived. The diminutive engineer had performed miracles keeping the battered ship not only afloat, but seaworthy, and three of her four boilers were probably in better shape than they’d been in years. Their arrival in Baalkpan, and the necessities of the war they found themselves in, had sparked an industrial revolution of sorts. The Lemurians had already possessed impressive foundries for casting massive anchors and other fittings for the Homes, but the Americans had taught them to make cannon, shot, and other things they’d need. The machine shops on the two destroyers turned out parts for lathes even bigger than themselves, and soon milling machines, lathes, and other heavy tools were operating in huge “factories” near the shipyard. They were running out of certain other spare parts fast, though, mostly bearings and things that Lemurian industry wasn’t yet up to helping them produce. They’d have to figure that out pretty quick.

Gray nodded. “Yes, sir. Please don’t ever tell him I said so, but Spanky’s been a wonder. Him and everybody else.”

“What?” demanded McFarlane, suddenly joining them, dripping like the rest, and striking his distinctive pose: hands on his skinny hips.

“Nothin’,” Gray grumped, recovering himself. “I was just wonderin’ who’s gonna restow that junk your snipes scattered all over my topsides.” He was referring to the disassembled drilling rig.

“Your deck apes,” Spanky replied cheerfully. “That’s their job.”

Walker steamed past Aracca Home, one of the enormous seagoing cities of the Lemurians. She was moving toward the mouth of the bay to relieve Big Sal as a floating battery-a task all the sea folk despised, but knew was necessary. Larger than the new Essex -class aircraft carriers Matt had seen under construction, Aracca, like all her kind, was built entirely of wood. Her hull was double ended, flat bottomed, and diagonally plank laminated to a thickness of six feet in some places. Matt was impressed by the sophisticated design, and knew the ship was incredibly tough. It had to be. Despite the stresses inherent to her momentous proportions (1,009 feet long, with a beam of almost 200 feet), Aracca had been built to last for centuries upon a sea that was much more hostile in many ways than the sea Matt had known before the Squallpite the rain, he saw her people going about their morning chores: preparing fish from the morning catch for drying, once the rain eased, and tending the polta fruit gardens on the main deck that ranged along the bulwark completely around the ship. The main deck was a hundred feet above the sea, and three huge pagodalike structures that served as apartments for many of her people towered above it like skyscrapers. Encompassing the structures were three massive tripods soaring another two hundred and fifty feet above the deck. They supported the great sails, or “wings” that provided Aracca ’s only means of propulsion-other than the hundred giant sweep-oars her people could use for maneuvering when necessary.

Matt was always amazed whenever he looked at Aracca -or any Lemurian Homes. Not only because of their size, but also because of the industrious ingenuity they represented. ’Cats may have been a little backward in some respects when the Americans first arrived, but they certainly weren’t ignorant. He had Walker ’s horn sounded in greeting, and he and the other officers went back out in the rain on the bridge wing and returned the friendly waves they received. Slowly the massive ship receded in the rain behind them.

“I’m already anxious to be back,” Matt said aloud, ruefully.

“We’re getting a late start,” conceded Dowden. He glanced apologetically at Spanky. “No offense, I know you went as fast as you could. It’s just…”

“I know,” Spanky growled. “By the original timetable, we should’ve been on our way home by now. But one thing led to another… It sure would’ve been easier with a dry dock, especially to get at the damage below the waterline. She won’t ever be ‘right’ until we can do that.”

“Agreed,” said the captain, “but that’ll have to wait. New construction has priority, and there just aren’t enough hands, or hours, or days…” He shook his head. “Nothing for it. You’ve done an amazing job, Spanky. All of you have. My question is, are the boilers in shape for more speed than we planned on, and if so, do we have the fuel? How much time can we shave off our trip?”

Spanky took off his hat and scratched his head. “We’re steaming on two boilers now, numbers two and three. Our range used to be about twenty-five hundred miles at twenty knots. We can’t do that well anymore. I can’t guarantee we can even make twenty knots on two boilers. If we light off number four, it’ll take half again as much fuel to gain just those few extra knots. Now, the new fuel bunker we installed where number one used to be ought to give us a safe margin, but it might not-and until we get the new site on Tarakan up and running, there won’t be anyplace to top off.” He shrugged. “If you’re putting me on the spot, I’d say we can light number four, probably squeeze twenty-five, maybe twenty-eight knots out of her, and still get back okay, but you won’t be able to do as much poking around looking for that ‘iron fish’ as you hoped. If we burn it now, you might wish we had it later.”

Matt grimaced. “Well, let’s wait till we reach open water and see what she’ll give us. Maybe she’ll make twenty. If she won’t, though, I’m inclined to burn it now. I just can’t shake the feeling we need to get back as soon as we can.”

“But… we’d still get back before any reinforcementthat escaped destruction when Walker first came to the People’s aid. No one knew what became of him at the time; it was assumed he was lost overboard with so many others, and devoured by the insatiable fish. Not so. Somehow he’d been captured and survived for months in first one hold, then another, and he’d seen… terrible things. He was quite mad when finally rescued. In the meantime, considering him dead, Selass finally realized she’d been wrong to take him to mate in the first place, and developed a real affection for Chack-Sab-At, who’d hopelessly wooed her before she made her choice. At the time, she hadn’t thought much of the young wing runner, but since then, Chack had become a noted warrior and a true leader. When she made her feelings known to him, he’d promised to give an answer after the battle for the ship. Instead, he’d returned to her with her long-lost mate. It was a crushing, emotional scene, and Sandra felt terribly sorry for Selass. Since then, Chack seemed to have fallen for the exotically beautiful B’mbaadan queen, Safir Maraan, but Selass’s feelings for him were undiminished. Added to that was the fact that her mate still lived and she could never leave him in his current state. It was a terrible hardship for Selass to bear: unrequited love for someone increasingly beyond her grasp, mixed with terrible guilt that she had those feelings while her legitimate mate still lived.

Even so, it might not have been so tragic, but Saak-Fas wouldn’t even speak to her, no matter how hard she tried to elicit some response. He wouldn’t speak to anyone. He was recovered, physically, from his ordeal, and almost feverish daily exercise had left him in better shape than he’d ever been. Sandra doubted he knew about his mate’s inner turmoil, so that probably wasn’t the reason for his behavior. When his old friends from Big Sal visited, he said nothing at all, and showed no interest in life aboard his old home. He cared nothing about reports of the war, and wouldn’t even acknowledge the existence of others who’d been through the same ordeal as he. Worst of all, no matter what she said or did, when Selass spent time with him each day, he acted as though she weren’t even there. The torment Selass felt was a palpable thing, and it wrenched Sandra to her core.

Sandra nodded and smiled at Pam Cross, who led a small procession of medical recruits through the fabric opening, showing them around. She knew Pam had issues of her own. It wasn’t much of a secret anymore that she and Dennis Silva had a “thing,” and she couldn’t help but wonder how that worked. It was even less a secret that Silva and Chack’s sister, Risa, had a “thing” of some sort going on as well, and as much as Sandra hoped it was a joke, with Silva there was no way of knowing. She shuddered and hoped Pam knew. She had to, didn’t she? Pam’s “thing” with Silva was proof, wasn’t it? She shook her head and went to stand beside Selass, where the Lemurian female was watching Saak-Fas do an unending series of push-ups.

“Good morning, Selass,” she said softly, the sorrow of the scene wrenching her anew.

For a moment Selass said nothing, but just sat cross-legged, watching the almost mechanical laboring of her mate. Finally, she sighed. “Good morning.” Her face, as usual, betrayed no emotion, but her tone was ironic, desolate. “Have they left?” she asked, referring to Walker, and more specifically Chack and Matt. Chack was accompanying the mission For a while, both were silent. The only sounds were Saak-Fas’s heavy breathing, the rain on the dense canvas overhead, and the tormented moans of others in the segregated sections of the ward.

“He spoke,” Selass said at last.

Sandra rushed to her side. “That’s wonderful!” Perhaps some of Selass’s misery might be relieved. “What did he say?”

“He did not speak to me.” The ironic tone remained, but Selass’s voice broke with emotion, and tears welled in her large, amber eyes. “He merely made an announcement, as if it mattered little to him whether anyone heard. As if I were… anybody.”

For a breath, Sandra was speechless, appalled by Saak-Fas’s apparent cruelty. “Well… what did he say?” she managed at last.

“He is leaving the ward. He is entirely well and strong, and ready to resume his missions.”

“Missions?” Sandra was taken aback.

“Yes. While he was… in captivity… he swore an oath much like Adar’s: if somehow he was spared, he would never rest until he destroyed as many Grik as he possibly could. No consideration would be allowed to compete with that goal: no distraction, no emotion, no thought. Not even me. No other obligation binds him now, not even to his Home. He has decided the best way to accomplish his missions is to join your Navy.” She looked at Sandra. “To join Mahan ’s crew.”

“What if we don’t release him? He’s still clearly unwell. His mental state-”

Selass interrupted her. “Release him?” She gestured at their surroundings. “How could we prevent him from leaving? We cannot guard him; nor should we. We have too few to do too much already. Besides, I think it would be wrong. He knows what he is doing and why. It… hurts, but I believe I know why too.”

Sandra stubbornly set her jaw. “Well, whatever his intentions are, I believe Lieutenant Ellis would have the final say. Saak-Fas might sneak out of here, but he certainly can’t sneak aboard Mahan and remain there if I don’t want him to. I’ll have a word with Jim…”

Selass rose and faced her. Behind her, Saak-Fas continued his workout, heedless of their words. “Do not,” she pleaded. “He must go. I have lost him already to his oath and what the Grik did to him. He exists only for revenge, and if I ever cared for him at all, I cannot stand in his way. He will perform his missions. At least this way it might be of some help, have some meaning.”

Sandra slowly nodded, and tears stung her own eyes. “Very well. But you keep saying ‘missions,’ plural. What other mission does he have, and why Mahan?”

Selass sighed and averted her gaze. “He wants Mahan because, in the fight to come, he believes she will give him his best opportunity to fulfill all his goals: to kill many of our enemies… and to die.”

The following morning was as great a contrast to the previous as ng was ao knew that the public dressing-down Dennis got over the incident was a sham for the crew. The captain was just as glad as anyone that the monster that got Tony was dead, and the killing had been good for overall morale. Spanky also suspected the captain knew Silva-and Stites-had done it for that exact reason as much as any other, and not just as the usual stupid stunt it would once have been written off as. The proof was that, for once, Silva hadn’t been reduced in grade for his “stunt.” His only punishment at all, in fact, had been restriction to the ship for the duration of their mission. (Like he would really want to go anywhere.) Besides, the last thing they needed, even changed as he was, was Silva on the loose in Manila during diplomatic negotiations.

Apparently, the only thing Captain Reddy was really mad about was that they’d risked Courtney Bradford. Of course, there’d been an element of relief associated with that as well. Bradford had been driving them all nuts with his constant demands to study stuff. Now he had a fresh (albeit shot to pieces) super lizard skull to gawk at and display, and an entertaining, ever-expanding story of heroism and adventure to go along with it. Maybe now there’d be a short respite.

After “feeling” the aft engine room, Spanky moved to the rail and spit a long, yellowish stream in their wake. After a final, wistful survey of the beautiful day he probably wouldn’t see again, he dropped down the companionway into the engineering spaces below. The noise of the giant turbines quickly grew louder as he descended, and he was immediately faced with a shouted altercation between the new (acting) chief machinist’s mate, Dean Laney, and one of the ’Cat Marines.

“What the hell’s going on here?” he bellowed. Despite his diminutive frame and years of smoking, there was nothing wrong with his lungs. Laney, a slightly shorter, less depraved, but also less bold and imaginative “snipe” version of Silva, glared down at him through beaded sweat and n do,” Spanky continued. “Hell, most of his Marines are Baalkpans-land folk. Can’t even tie a knot. Even the ones from Homes might as well have spent their lives on battlewagons or flattops. They aren’t used to the way the old gal rolls and pitches and they’re pukin’ their guts out.” His tone softened slightly, and a trace of amusement crept into it. “I know you’re just guarding your turf, and Chief Donaghey left mighty big shoes to fill in that regard, but you have to bend a little.”

Laney looked unconvinced. “All right, Spanky. I hear you. But we’re covered in shit down here. After all the repairs, this is like her sea trials all over again. Everything needs adjusting, and the feed-water pump on number three don’t sound right. Gauges are all over the place, and we’re makin’ smoke!”

McFarlane nodded. “All but number two. When the new firemen are off duty, have them go watch the Mice for a while. Maybe they’ll learn something.”

Laney rolled his eyes. “Those kooks? Besides, they’re some of the ones this monkey Marine wants. Says they built the rig in the first place, so they know what needs to go ashore first, and how it ought to be stowed.”

Spanky’s tone sharpened once again. “Yeah, they built the rig. They found the oil we’re burning too, if you’ll recall. And they’re also kooks. But they’re my kooks-and yours now, too-aside from being the best boilermen in the firerooms, so you’d better figure out how to handle them. We need those squirrelly little guys. Use them. They can’t teach with words worth a damn, but the new guys, the ’Cats, can learn by example. Make ’em watch them.” He turned to the Marine. “You can run along now. I’ll send them up myself.”

When the ’Cat was gone, Spanky turned back to Laney. “Listen,” he said, “you’re doing a good job, but you need to get along better with the apes-I don’t care if they’re human or ’Cats. The bosun’s already casually referred to you as an asshole in my presence, and I’d take that as a powerful hint if I were you. You don’t want him on your bad side.” Laney gulped. There was no question about that. “The upper and lower deck rivalry exists for a purpose,” Spanky continued. “It spurs productivity and even camaraderie in a way. Besides, it’s fun. But don’t take it too seriously or let it go too far. Never lose sight of the fact we’re all on the same side.” He paused. “And don’t call ’em monkey Marines anymore. They don’t like it, and neither do I. It’ll just make you look bad in the eyes of the ’Cats in our own division. Don’t forget some of them-the best ones-were Marines before they were snipes. Clear?”

“Clear,” Laney grumbled.

“Good. Now see if you can sort out the feed water problem, and let me know what’s up.” He paused. “How many of our guys did he say Chack wants?”

“Half a dozen or so.”

Spanky nodded. “Well, just keep working. I’ll pick ’em out as I move forward.”

With that, McFarlane eased past the sweating men and panting ’Cats and worked his way forward through the condensation-dripping maze of pipes and roaring machinery. The scene in the forward engine room was much the same, and after detailing a couple of guys topside to help Chack, he paused for a few words with the throttlemen. Continuing on, he cycled through the air lock to the aft fireroom. T~}he firerooms had to operate in a pressurized environment to allow constant air and fuel flow so the fires would burn hot and steady. Once inside, he was greeted by yet more activity: men actually working on the feed-water pump, for example, as well as other things he thought were already fixed. He also noted a dramatic increase in temperature. It was probably a hundred and twenty degrees.

Sweat gushed in the hot, humid environment, and he wiped it from his face and flung it aside to join the slimy black slurry coating the plates beneath his feet. The stench was unbelievable. It was the usual combination of bilgewater, sweaty bodies, mildew, fuel oil, and smoke. Added to those was something more like wet dog than anything else he could think of. Ultimately, the sum was greater-and far more nauseating-than the parts. He didn’t know how the ’Cats, with their more sensitive noses, could keep their breakfasts down. Number four was offline while repairs were underway, but the ’Cat burner batter on number three stood panting, ready to replace the plate if the fuel tender called for it. The ’Cat looked miserable, and Spanky honestly couldn’t see how the furry little guys stood the heat. When they began accepting Lemurians into the Navy as full-fledged crew members, he’d never dreamed so many would strike for the engineering spaces. It was just too hot and confined. He’d been surprised when he was swamped with applications. ’Cats loved machinery, and regardless of the environment, they clambered to be close to the most complicated examples-like the engines and boilers. Some couldn’t hack it. Even the ones that stayed, and apparently thrived, shed their fur like mad, and tiny, downy filaments drifted everywhere. Even though they tried to clean it every day, the slurry on the deck and catwalks was tangled with the longer stuff to the point that, from one end of the fireroom to the other, it looked like a clogged shower drain. Every time he entered the firerooms he sneezed, but the ’Cats that stayed were diligent and enthusiastic, and he couldn’t have done without them. Maybe some didn’t understand everything they were doing, but they didn’t always have to, and they treated him like some sort of omniscient wizard.

He listened for a moment, as they expected him to, and occasionally touched a gauge or felt a pipe. It was only his normal routine, but it always left them wondering what mystical significance the act represented. He stifled a grin and nodded friendly greetings before sending a couple of the least occupied above. Passing through the next air lock, he entered the forward fireroom.

“Oh, good God!” he exclaimed, when, looking up, he was immediately greeted by a pair of large, naked, and entirely human-looking breasts (if you could get past the fine, soot gray fur covering them). “How many times do I have to tell you to wear some goddamn clothes? At least a shirt!”

“It too hot!” Tab-At (hence, Tabby to the other Mice) declared. Somehow, her slightly pidgin English also contained a hint of a drawl she’d picked up from the other “original” Mice.

“It’s no hotter than usual. You just do that to aggravate me,” Spanky complained, knowing it was true. When Tabby first came to the firerooms he’d thrown an absolute fit. To have females of any kind in his engineering spaces went against everything he stood for, from ancient tradition to his personal sense of propriety. He’d even tried to force the issue once by decreeing everyone under his command would perform their duties in full uniform, something never before required. It was a blatant attempt to get her to strike for a different, more All the sloshing around probably helped dissipate the warming effect. He didn’t like the idea of all that fuel right here in the fireroom; if they ever had an accident… but there was nowhere else to put it, and it was his idea, after all. Oh, well. He patted the tank and went through the forward air lock.

“I swear, Tabby, how come ye’re always waggin’ yer boobs at the chief?” asked Gilbert after Spanky was gone. “You know it drives him nuts. Just havin’ wimmin aboard at all is enough to cause him fits-and then you do that!”

“Yeah,” agreed Isak, “ain’t ever’body in the Navy as sensitive as us two.”

“He needs to laugh,” Tabby replied, “and he will, later.”

The meeting in the wardroom was also a late breakfast, catered to perfection by Juan. The food was laid out, buffet style, on the wooden countertops on the port side of the compartment spanning the width of the ship. Juan and Ray Mertz, a mess attendant, stood ready with carafes of ice water and coffee. Those eating were seated at a long, green, linoleum-topped table that also served as an operating table when necessary. A bright light hung above it from an adjustable armature allowing it to be lowered over a patient. It was currently raised and stowed, but there was plenty of light, and even a slight breeze through the open portholes on each side. Much of the food looked familiar to the humans, even if the source wasn’t. Mounds of scrambled eggs and strips of salty “bacon” tasting much like one would have expected them to-even if the eggs came from leathery, flying reptiles, and the bacon from… something else. Biscuits had been baked with the coarse-grained local flour, and pitchers of polta juice were provided for those who cared for it. There was no milk, although there was something that tasted a little like cream with which they could season their ersatz coffee if they chose. Lemurians were mammals, but considered it perverse for adults to drink milk. Understandable, since the only other creatures that might have provided it were decidedly undomesticated.

Juan had worked wonders to lay in the supplies and logistical support necessary to provide the simple, “normal” breakfast. Standard Lemurian morning fare was dry bread, fruit, and fish. It had been standard, at least, until Juan Marcos stepped up. Many Navy ’Cats had developed a liking for the powdered eggs and ketchup the American destroyermen ate, but that was long gone now. The refrigerator was stocked with fresh eggs, though, and that would serve until they ran out. Alan Letts was working on several projects to desiccate food-eventually, for longer trips, they’d have to come up with something-but for now they’d laid in a supply of dried fish and fruit for when the fresh stuff ran out. Strangely, they did still have plenty of one type of food they’d stocked so long ago when Walker escaped Surabaya: crates of Vienna sausages. The cook, Earl Lanier, still tried to infiltrate the slimy little things into meals on occasion, carefully camouflaged, but the men hated the “scum weenies” with a passion, and always ferreted them out. Even the ’Cats had finally grown to dislike them. Regardless, the fat, irascible cook refused to get rid of them, calling them “survival rations.”

After cordial greetings, the officers in the wardroom ate in silence, for the most part. It was the Lemurian way not to discuss matters of importance during a meal, and Matt thought the custom made sense. Instead of talking, he enjoyed his fne th brown, cat-faced bear was Keje-Fris-Ar, High Chief of Salissa Home- Big Sal, as the Americans called her. Matt was glad his friend Keje felt free to make the trip. Like the other Homes in the alliance, Keje’s would take its turn guarding the mouth of the bay, but under the command of his cousin, Jarrik-Fas, she didn’t really need him for that. Also, he’d finally decided to allow some of the “alterations” Letts and Lieutenant Brister had beenfo›“It’s a shame we missed Donaghey ’s christening, but we should be back in time for the others. I understand Donaghey will sail within days, in an attempt to rescue more of Queen Maraan’s people from B’mbaado.” He glanced at Chack for some reaction, but there was none. Everyone knew he and the B’mbaadan queen were besotted with each other. They also knew that, regardless of risk, she’d accompany the expedition.

“Next, as you know, we should reach Tarakan Island tomorrow morning. The supply ship set out more than a week ago, so she should be waiting for us now. We have much to do there, obviously, but I don’t want to linger longer than necessary. We’re constrained by time and fuel, so hopefully we can off-load all the equipment and personnel in a single day and be on our way. We still have a long trip ahead of us.” The others murmured agreement, and he turned his attention to Shinya. “Chief Gray will be in overall command of the operation. He’ll have to coordinate the off-load with Spanky, but once we’re gone, he’ll be in charge. That being said, have you decided who will command the security force?”

Shinya was silent for a moment, looking at the Bosun. He knew Matt was giving him an out. Of all the crew, Gray had probably maintained his hatred of “Japs” more fiercely than anyone else. In that one respect he seemed almost irrational. Shinya didn’t even think it was personal; the man had, after all, once saved his life. But Gray couldn’t get over the fact that when they went through the Squall, three months after Pearl Harbor, his son was still listed as missing. The younger Gray had been aboard the USS Oklahoma, one of the battleships sunk in the attack. She’d capsized and settled, upside down, to the muddy bottom of the harbor, trapping countless souls aboard. Many had never even known who was attacking them. Even though Shinya hadn’t been there, he knew Gray could never forgive him-for being a Jap.

“I will command the security force,” he said at last, “if Mr. Gray has no objections.” The Bosun only grunted. “Chack will command the Marines remaining aboard the ship.”

Matt nodded thoughtfully, noting the tension between the two. It would probably actually be better to leave them both there, he decided, and let them sort things out. He didn’t think either would let their animosities interfere with their duties. Besides, if things got out of hand, they were still close enough to Baalkpan for the Bosun to send Shinya home on a supply ship.

“Very well. Fifty Marines will land from the supply ship, and we’ll leave twenty of ours behind. That should be more than sufficient to deal with any local menace. I’d highly recommend beginning defensive fortifications, however. Seventy Marines and about a hundred workers from the Sixth Baalkpan might seem a formidable force, but if only one Grik ship should come as far as Tarakan, you’ll be outnumbered two to one-and we know the Grik usually operate in threes.”

“Of course, Captain Reddy. Defenses will be my first priority.”

“Mine too,” the Bosun growled.

“Of course. Now, Mr. Bradford, I assume it will be no inconvenience for you to accompany the landing force? Bear in mind your primary duty will be to pinpoint an appropriate place to sink the first well and establish our refinery. Fascinating as I’m sure you’ll find them, don’t be distracted by every new bug and beetle you come across. I promise you’ll have plenty of opportuuJnities to play tourist later on. Just find them a place to drill; then get back aboard.”

“I suppose I can delay my explorations for the sake of the war effort,” replied Bradford with a rueful grin, “but really, I must protest. Plotting the best spot to drill should not be difficult at all. Tarakan was a veritable island oil well before the war. The Jappos snapped it up right quick, let me tell you!” He glanced at Shinya. “No offense personally, I’m sure! Anyway, the place looked like one great refinery sprouting from the very sea. You could poke a hole in it just about anywhere and find oil, I expect. It’s disgraceful how little time you’ve included in your schedule for scientific discovery.”

“Discover a magic twig that, when waved about, will erase the Grik from the world and I shall devote myself to carrying you to unknown shores for the rest of your life,” Keje barked, and everyone, even Gray, laughed at that.

“Details, then,” said Matt, smiling, and the discussion began in earnest.