"Destroyermen" - читать интересную книгу автора (Anderson Taylor)

CHAPTER 3

They ran south all night at twenty knots. The two operational boilers on each ship could have carried them faster, but with all their damage, twenty knots was a sufficiently hair-raising speed. Repairmen labored on, exhausted, trying to accomplish tasks while under way that ordinarily required a yard. Shoring timbers pushed warped seams together and shipfitters welded them instead of waiting for rivets. They had too far to go. Matt briefly considered returning to Surabaya, but with all the enemy activity, they'd probably wind up trapped. Ceylon was still within reach, fuel-wise, but the only reason that had been their original destination was that its yard facilities could handle Exeter. With the British cruiser lost, there was no reason to go there. Wiser to make for Perth, Australia, where some of their sisters had gone.

It was a cloudless night, but the moon was the merest sliver. It provided just enough light for Mahan to follow their wake. Matt pitied her shorthanded, exhausted crew. Walker had lost more than twenty killed herself—almost a quarter of her complement—and another eight were seriously wounded. But Mahan had more than sixty dead. She was a floating morgue. Most of her casualties occurred when a ten-inch shell destroyed her bridge. Other men were lost in the aft deckhouse and fireroom.

It was a miracle that either ship had survived. The only things that saved them were getting in close where Amagi's main guns couldn't engage . . . and the Squall, of course. Matt shifted uncomfortably in his seat at the memory. The Squall had been unusual in itself, but then a whole string of strange events followed. The ravenous fish, the "sea monster" (he couldn't think of anything else to call it). Then there was the odd lack of radio traffic. The radiomen and electrician's mates had studied the equipment carefully and found nothing wrong, but everyone was exhausted and they must've missed something. It was that simple . . . Matt's eyelids fluttered open again, and he shook his head to clear his blurry thoughts. Instead, his chin slowly drooped until it rested on his chest.

The midwatch would be coming on soon, he thought muzzily. At least some of the men could sleep. Poor Richard. Up in the crow's nest all day long, only to die when they were so close to safety. He'd done his duty, but he'd missed the sea monster. Jim missed it too, as had everyone on the other ship. They were lucky. At least it won't swim in their dreams. It's already in mine and I'm not even asleep.

He was snoring lightly. Garrett, his neck and hands covered with gauze, had the deck. He stepped quietly over to stand beside his captain, lest he fall from his chair. He caught the eyes of the other tired men and held a finger to his lips.

Matt came awake in a blurry, gray dawn. He blinked, rubbed dried grit from his eyes, and looked around. Lieutenant Dowden was nearby, conversing in quiet tones with the Bosun. Matt felt a surge of irritation at being allowed to sleep, but it was immediately replaced by a vague sense of guilt at having done so. Wry acceptance followed. At least now he could face this new day without dropping from exhaustion.

"Coffee?" he croaked.

Almost before the word was uttered, Juan Marcos appeared at his elbow, steaming mug in hand. Juan was the officers' steward and the only Filipino who hadn't—understandably—jumped ship when they left the Philippines. He beamed as his captain took the cup and nodded his thanks. Raising it to his lips, Matt took a tentative sip. "That's good," he said, and sipped again. "Very good, Juan. Best coffee you've ever made."

A wounded expression clouded the Filipino's face. "But Cap-tan Reddy, I did not make it!"

Matt glanced at Gray, who suddenly looked away. "Well . . . of course I just woke up and it's my first cup. I'm sure it just tastes so good because I really needed it."

The Bosun coughed to stifle a laugh. Juan took good care of them, given his limited resources, and no one would have dreamed of hurting his feelings. But his concept of good coffee was . . . different from everyone else's.

"No, Cap-tan Reddy. I'm sure it is very good. Better than mine." Juan spoke with brittle formality. "One of the nurses made it. The seсorita nurses," he added darkly as if to say it might taste good, but would probably poison him. "Now you are awake, I will bring you a breakfast I doubt they could match!"

Matt chuckled. "I'm sure you will, Juan. I'm starved!" The Filipino summoned all his dignity—a most impressive quantity—and left the bridge. Matt raised an eyebrow at Chief Gray and shook his head. He then turned in his chair to glance astern.

"She's still hangin' tight," Gray said, referring to Mahan. Matt could just make her out in the grayish-pink morning half-light. He stood, stretching his arms over his head. He felt like he'd been thrown from a horse, but except for minor cuts from broken glass, he'd escaped the previous day's battles without injury. "Where are we?"

Dowden stepped to the chart table, and Matt and Gray joined him there to peer at the map. "Here, sir," Dowden said and pointed. "Just about exactly."

Matt looked at the indicated position and then stared out the windows. It was difficult to tell, but he thought he saw a landmass ahead. "I'm not enthusiastic about running Lombok or Bali Strait in daylight," he said. "If the Japs are here ahead of us, it would be simple for them to put a stopper in the bottle. There're only so many holes in the Malay Barrier. Even after all the running around we did yesterday and last night, we're only about three hundred miles from where we started. They could easily have beaten us here."

"Yes, sir," agreed the Bosun. "And they don't even need ships." He pointed at the map. "A couple of planes patrolling here, or here, and they'd have us. They couldn't miss us. We're in no shape to dodge dive bombers."

Matt rubbed the stubble on his chin and nodded thoughtfully. "What's this?" He pointed to a sliver of land off the northeast corner of Bali.

Dowden leaned closer. "Ah . . . Menjangan Island. It looks like it's only about two and a half miles long. The chart shows a narrow channel between it and Bali that's about a mile wide."

"What if we eased in there and hunkered down for the day, and then ran Bali Strait tonight?" Matt mused aloud. Dowden looked unconvinced, but Gray was thoughtful.

"Looks like plenty of water. The channel shows a hundred forty feet. There's about three fifty all around. The currents look okay." He looked at Matt. "Bali Strait wouldn't be my first choice in the dark; it's so narrow. But the Japs might think that too. It sounds good, Skipper."

"Yeah, but we know there's Japs on Bali," added the captain darkly. "After the fiasco in Badung Strait, there was nothing we could do about it. That should have been different." He sighed. "It all depends on how far they've advanced. We know their force wasn't very big and they'll be concentrating on securing airfields." He deliberated. "Bali's pretty big and they went ashore on the far side of the island. Worst case, they might've sneaked a few observers in to watch the strait, but I can't imagine they'd waste their time watching that little gap beside Menjangan. It doesn't go anywhere." Dowden was nodding now. Their only other option was a daylight run through a very confined stretch of water.

"We lie doggo for the day," Matt decided. "It'll give us a chance to patch some holes. Besides, I'd like to get with Jim. I need a real report on Mahan's condition, as well as our own." He stared at the map a few moments more. "I wonder what kind of cover Menjangan has. A lot of these little islands are just jungles poking out of the sea. That'd be perfect for our needs. Some are barren volcanic rocks too." He looked around the pilothouse questioningly. "I've never been there." Dowden and Gray were both shaking their heads, and no one else spoke up. "Send for Mr. Bradford. Maybe he knows."

"Aye, aye, sir."

The Bosun followed Matt to the bridgewing, where they stood silently staring aft at Mahan. Matt grimaced. "By the way, Boats, how are our other `passengers' making out?"

Gray arched an eyebrow and then snorted. "Well, Skipper, I've been a little busy, and they might've strayed from my immediate presence a time or two . . ."

Matt chuckled. "But, Boats, you're not just a chief, you're the Chief. The Bosun! You're supposed to know everything that happens on this ship."

Gray grunted noncommittally. "Yes, sir. Lieutenant Mallory pulled his weight. He helped out a lot hauling ammo and if it weren't for him, I guess we'd've had to leave the Nip. He'll live, by the way." He glowered. "On the other hand, Kaufman's a wonder. He ran around all day, gettin' in the way and tryin' to tell everybody what to do. Finally, Campeti got fed up. He handed him a four-inch shell and told him he could carry it to the number one gun or he'd cram it . . . down his trousers . . . and throw him over the side."

Matt started to laugh, but the humor was replaced by anger at the selfimportant idiot who'd harassed his men during battle. He forced himself to maintain a placid expression but was shocked by how quickly his outrage flared. "What about the nurses? I heard one was killed."

Gray nodded. He put his hands in his pockets, but quickly withdrew them. When he answered, his voice held genuine regret. "Yes, sir. She was a pretty thing too. Leslie Runnels, or Ranells, or something. She was helping Doc with Rodriguez when they got hit. Rodriguez'll be okay, though. The cut on his leg wasn't very big, but they nearly didn't get the bleeding stopped. Cut an artery, I guess." He was quiet a moment, but when he continued, he was shaking his head. "The shell that got Doc and the nurse couldn't'a missed Rodriguez by a foot. The other nurses took over and did just fine. Their lieutenant—Tucker's her name—just jumped right in. I looked in a time or two, bringin' guys in, mostly, and there she was, shells slammin' through the ship, smoke and blood all over the place . . . and her stitchin' and cuttin' and giving orders as calm as you please, and her no bigger'n a button. I don't know what we would've done without her.

Would've lost more men for sure." He stopped. "They went through hell, though, all of 'em, and that's a fact. We had a lot of wounded—and them losin' one of their own . . ."

"I'll have to thank her. Thank them all." Matt took a deep breath and let it out. "I have a rough idea of our casualties. I want the specifics, names and such, when I take a report from each division. A lot of letters to write . . ."

Courtney Bradford chose that moment to ascend the ladder and present himself. "I understand you need a pilot for these mysterious seas? Of course you do, and I'm just the fellow! The marine life around Menjangan is exquisite! Simply exquisite! There are no shallows, you know, just a sheer underwater cliff with all manner of fascinating creatures clinging precariously to it! Once I lowered a net and dragged it up the side and was amazed by what I found. Amazed!"

"Yes, well," replied Matt, taken aback. "I'm afraid we won't have time for sightseeing. I'd forgotten, though. You said you were a naturist?"

"Naturalist, actually. It's a hobby of mine. I planned to write a book one day." He shook his head wistfully. "This confounded war has certainly inconvenienced me, let me tell you!"

"What exactly does a naturalist do?"

"A naturalist, dear boy, is one who studies nature. It's a dreadfully inclusive term, but I'm a dreadfully inclusive naturalist. Most of us tend to have a specialty, but I have broader interests, shall we say. I'm not really an expert on anything, but I know a little about quite a lot. In fact, my book wasn't to be a treatise on any particular thing, per se, but more a general discussion of the various fauna of this region as a whole, don't you see? Of course."

They'd moved into the pilothouse as they spoke, and the rest of the watch were surreptitiously straining to listen to the strange Australian.

"Tell me, Mr. Bradford," asked the captain in a serious tone, "in your studies, did you ever happen to hear about that . . ." He hesitated, searching for a term. Somehow "sea monster," however appropriate, didn't strike him as a responsible description. He finally settled for "creature" regardless of its inadequacy. "I failed to ask you last night before you left the bridge."

Bradford looked pensive and glanced at the others within hearing and lowered his voice. "No, Captain. Not ever. And that school of fish! Abominable! I've never even heard of such a thing. Unless, of course . . ." He paused and removed his hat, fingers massaging his brow. "Have you ever heard of the plesiosaurs?" he asked hesitantly. Matt blinked, and Gray just shook his head. "They're quite fascinating, actually. A particularly formidable specimen of a type of plesiosaur was once found near Queensland. It's called kronosaurus, I believe, and its head is nearly eight feet long!"

With an audience including the entire bridge as his voice began to rise, Bradford warmed to his subject. "Quite horrible, I'm sure! Great long fins, or flippers, you might say, and a long mouth full of unusually terrifying teeth! Consummate predators, not unlike killer whales, I should think. Surely you remember hearing about them now?"

Matt shook his head and smiled. "No. I'm glad somebody has, though! That must've been what we saw. You sure described it well enough. They must be awful rare, or you'd hear more about them."

Chief Gray looked at Courtney Bradford with the skeptical expression of a man who's been told a fish story. "I been in the Navy almost as long as this ship," he rumbled, "and I never heard of `pleezy-sores,' or whatever-the-hell-you-called-its."

Bradford stared at them, astonished. He resembled nothing more than a paunchy owl that awakened hanging upside down from a limb it knew it had been standing on. "No! You don't understand! It cannot possibly have been kronosaurus! They've been extinct for tens of millions of years!"

Matt looked at Bradford and took a deep breath. He shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. He definitely didn't need this endless procession of mysteries. He'd hoped that Bradford could sort them out.

"Extinct, as in all gone?" muttered Gray in an ominous tone.

Bradford was nodding. "Precisely. Extinct means precisely that. I didn't mean to imply . . ."

"Hmm. Well. Boats, I assume you have duties? Very well. Mr. Bradford? We're going to hide out between Menjangan Island and Bali until nightfall. I hope you'll be available if we have questions. I'm going up top for a while." With that, Matt nodded at the two men and stepped to the ladder.

As he climbed, he heard the Chief mutter, "Real cute. If I ever hear you call the captain `boy' again, I'll toss you in the wake!"

In spite of his concern, Matt couldn't help but grin as Bradford sputtered and protested and apologized at once. Gray thinks he was spinning an educated fish story, he thought, but I'm not so sure. We definitely saw something eat those Japs, and it was damned real. Every now and then, something turns up that scientists thought was extinct forever. Maybe this— he didn't even try to pronounce it—is one of them?

On the fire-control platform, he exchanged greetings with the morning watch and peered ahead at the landmasses looming before them. The flanks of both islands were shrouded in fog, but it wasn't too dense. It was unusual in these seas, but it shouldn't hazard navigation and it might help conceal them from planes. After a while he returned to the pilothouse.

Mahan followed closely behind as they crept carefully—with just a few suggestions from their guide—into the narrow, hazy strait that separated Menjangan Island from Bali. On the foredeck, the Bosun bellowed commands at the special sea and anchor detail. The anchors were dropped, and several men from each ship motored ashore on Menjangan with a heavy hawser. The bridge crew watched anxiously as the boats became vague shapes in the fog.

"You did instruct them to stay out of the water, I'm sure?" asked Mr. Bradford in a nervous tone. Matt glanced at him.

"You don't think there might be more of those fish here?"

Bradford shook his head. "There shouldn't have been any where we saw them."

Matt grunted agreement. "I wouldn't worry. After yesterday, I doubt anyone wants to get wet."

The anchors held well enough and they could have stayed right where they were, but Matt wanted to snug up as tight to the bank as they could and camouflage their ships with foliage from shore. It was strangely quiet. The roar of the blowers had faded to a steady rumble. There was only the slightest breeze, and the gentle swell of the strait lapped innocently against their battered hull. Men brought thin mattresses from below and spread them on deck to sleep away from the stuffy berthing spaces. Others continued making repairs. As always, Matt was struck by the contrast.

His destroyermen were capable of amazing feats of courage and endurance while on watch, but only because when they weren't, they could sack out anytime, anywhere, and in any situation. Many of the men shuffling about looking for a place to stretch out had been awake for thirty-six hours and more. Most who were busy had managed at least a little sleep during the night. He watched as two "snipes" emerged from below, squinting, as if even the fog-filtered morning light hurt their eyes. Beneath the grease and sweat-streaked soot covering them, he saw their pasty skins and realized they were the two firemen everyone called the Mice. He didn't remember ever seeing them above deck. They looked around, very much like mice that had just chewed through a wall into an unexplored room. Finally, they climbed the ladder onto the amidships deckhouse and crept to the ready ammunition locker behind the number two gun. They lay down on the bare deck and were probably asleep before they'd even finished moving. Of all the men, the damage-control parties and the engineering division had suffered the worst, he thought.

He joined Lieutenant Dowden, staring intently in the direction the boats had gone. They were visible in the thinning fog, tied to the rocky shore, but there was no activity. The island beyond the landing faded into haze, but they had the impression it was covered by dense brush and stunted trees. A prickly sensation of apprehension crept into his chest, but he shook it off. They would be searching for trees large enough to secure the hawsers to. Perhaps it was taking longer than expected to find any suitable ones.

From the island, they heard a muffled shot. Then another. They both raised binoculars and tried to pierce the haze. Three more shots thumped from shore, and without lowering the glasses Matt shouted up at the platform above. "Make ready on the starboard .30-cal, but hold your fire until I give the word!" The canvas cover on the gun was snatched away and a new belt of ammunition prepared.

Gunner's Mate 2nd Class Dennis Silva, ordinarily gun captain on number one, was on the trigger. He was probably the best they had and would have been a credit to the ship—if he weren't more often an embarrassment. He was tall and powerful and kept his hair burred so short he might as well have shaved it. Aboard ship, he was usually competent and professional, but ashore he was completely unable to behave. He always reminded Matt of a quote he once read: "Maleness gone berserk." That described Dennis Silva to a T. Matt would have restricted him to the ship for life, but he'd just go AWOL (he'd done it before) and wind up in more trouble than he could be rescued from. He was Walker's Hercules—a valuable man, but he required . . . supervision. Now Silva peered at the boats like the rest of them, his hands on the weapon, but the muzzle was pointed up and away. One of his minions, Tom Felts, held the belt of linked cartridges.

"I see them!" exclaimed Dowden, pointing. Emerging from the gloom were several men. Two were helping a third. They reached one of the boats and piled in, pushing off from shore. There were a couple more shots and then the rest of the shore party ran down and hurriedly cast off the second boat. Matt heard the motors cough to life, and then the boats were speeding back toward Walker.

"I don't know what they're shooting at, Silva," Matt called above, "but keep that shoreline covered."

"Aye, aye, Skipper."

A few minutes later, both boats bumped alongside and the men climbed out, sending the injured crewman ahead. Matt was surprised to see a couple of the nurses waiting for him on deck. Bosun's Mate 1st Class Carl Bashear, who'd commanded the party, lingered over the wounded man and spoke to one of the nurses. Then he puffed up the ladder to the bridge.

"Skipper, we couldn't secure the hawsers," he said. He was breathing hard and his black hair was plastered to his skull. Even with the haze, the temperature was already over eighty degrees and the humidity was horrible.

"I can see that. What happened? Who got hurt?"

"Lizards, sir! It was lizards. Big ones."

"Impossible!" snorted Courtney Bradford.

Matt shot the Australian a look that silenced him. "What do you mean? What lizards? What were you shooting at?"

Bashear's breathing began to slow. "Damned if I know what I mean, Skipper, but there were lizards. We'd split up and were looking for some good trees to tie off to, and a couple more to drop in the water to make a pier. All of a sudden, Leo Davis takes to hollerin' that somethin' had ahold of him! Me and Vernon and Scott ran over there, and sure enough, this big-ass—'scuse me, sir—this dern big lizard has chomped down on Davis's leg and is draggin' him off."

Bradford was about to burst. "But—but—" he stammered. Matt held up his hand and motioned Bashear to continue.

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir. Anyway, ol' Davis is carryin' on that he's bein' ate, so we took to shootin' at the lizard. Me and Scott had rifles." He stopped a moment, and thankfully took a long gulp from a Coke the Bosun handed him. He smacked his lips. "Well," he continued, "it turned him loose and come at us." He shrugged. "We shot it some more. I'm pretty sure we killed it. Anyway, we grabbed up Davis and headed back to the boat. All of a sudden, there's more lizards, so we shot at them too. I guess we nearly didn't make it. All we had was the shells in the guns. And like I said, Skipper, those lizards was big."

"Preposterous!" sputtered Bradford. "The only `lizards' that might attack a man are on the island of Komodo. That island, sir, is two hundred nautical miles from here. The great reptiles inhabiting it are found there and on a couple of small neighboring islands. Nowhere else. Certainly not Menjangan! My God, man! I've been here myself, and there are no such creatures! I don't believe there are even the smaller monitors."

Bashear eyed the Australian coldly. "You callin' me a liar?"

Gray interrupted. "These Komodo lizards—"

"Dragons, sir. We in the scientific community call them Komodo dragons. Varanus komodoensis, to be precise." Bradford sniffed.

"I don't care if they fly and blow fire out their ass," Gray growled impatiently. "Are they poisonous? One of my men was bitten."

Bradford blinked, his contention forgotten. "Oh, dear. Yes indeed, they're extremely poisonous—or rather, their bite is highly septic. We believe it has to do with bacteria in their mouths—" The Chief merely glanced at Bashear, who interrupted Bradford again.

"Skipper, with your permission . . ." Matt waved him on and Bashear hurried away.

Bradford turned and walked onto the starboard bridgewing and peered at the island, which was becoming more distinct. Suddenly he stiffened. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "Oh, look! Someone lend me a glass, I beg you!" The assistant gunnery officer, Ensign Pruit Barry, shrugged and handed him his binoculars.

"There! Oh, there! There are two of them!" Matt joined him and raised his own binoculars for a look. On the beach, in the dwindling mist, was a pair of extremely large lizards. They appeared to be ten or twelve feet long from their blunt-nosed snouts to the tips of their whip-thin tails. They crept down almost to the water and seemed to stare at the pair of destroyers, their beady eyes fixed on the ships. "Oh, my goodness, they are big!" chortled Bradford excitedly. "They're the largest I've ever seen. And their color! Green and red! Amazing!" Then, as they watched, one of the lizards raised itself onto its hind legs until it gained a nearly entirely erect posture. It stood with its head bobbing up and down as if testing the air. Bradford gasped.

"My God! Oh, Captain, I must go ashore! Look at that! It's standing up! My God! This must be an entirely new species! Never before seen! Just think of it!" Matt lowered his binoculars and turned to the man. "Captain," Bradford continued, oblivious to Matt's stare, "I insist you allow me ashore! I must have a closer look!"

When Matt spoke his voice was quiet, but he couldn't hide his incredulity. "Mr. Bradford, have you entirely forgotten yourself?"

The Australian wrenched his gaze from the beach and regarded Captain Reddy. His mouth hung open as if to protest, but then it clamped abruptly shut. With a mournful expression, he nodded. "Of course, Captain. Of course." He sighed. "I apologize. It's not every day a man of my interests observes a new species, particularly one this important." He glanced wistfully at the island. "Just one more debt I owe those miserable Jappos."

Matt nodded understanding. "I think we're all keeping score." He turned to Dowden. "It doesn't look like we'll be able to secure to the island. We'll remain at anchor here. Every pair of eyes not otherwise occupied will watch for aircraft, and I want to be ready to move in a hurry."

Matt suddenly reflected with surprise that he'd already begun addressing Lieutenant Dowden as Walker's executive officer. With Jim gone and the other senior officers dead, he was the obvious choice. He'd been Jim's assistant and he'd filled in for him often enough. In many ways, execs had the hardest job on any ship, and this wasn't the time to appoint somebody unaccustomed to the role. He was just a "jay gee," and very young for the job, but with a war on he'd likely be a full lieutenant by the time they got to Australia anyway. He would do fine. Besides, the only other possibilities—within the chain of command—were Alan Letts, the (j.g.) supply officer, Garrett, and Spanky. Spanky and Garrett were essential where they were and Letts was . . . a disappointment. He was a good guy and knew his job, but he wasn't very industrious. Walker needed a go-getter right now, and the willowy, blond-haired lieutenant from Tennessee certainly fit that description.

Matt mentally shook his head and continued. "Chances are they won't spot us, though. They'll be looking at the strait. Signal Mahan and ask Mr. Ellis if he's comfortable coming across for an hour or so, or whether he'd prefer to report by Morse lamp."

Matt sat on the bunk in his small cabin and tested his freshly shaven chin with his fingers. It had been difficult negotiating the razor around the painful glass cuts scattered across his face. Satisfied, he finished dressing and looked in the mirror over his desk. Better, he thought. The quick shower he'd indulged in had helped. His eyes were still red and there were circles underneath them, and he was still so tired that when he blinked it seemed his eyelids moved too slowly and then tried to stick together. He sat back on the bunk and listened to the growing conversations in the crowded wardroom. If only he could lean over and lie down. Just for a minute. The cramped, uncomfortable bunk was the most inviting thing in the world at that moment.

Someone knocked on the doorframe. "Sir?" said Garrett hesitantly. "Everybody's here." Matt sighed and rose to his feet. Squaring his shoulders, he stepped through the doorway and down the short corridor into the wardroom. Most of his officers and department heads—many new to their jobs—were there. Ellis and a bandage-swaddled ensign named Tony Monroe had come from Mahan. Monroe was assistant navigation officer and aside from Perry Brister, her chief engineer, the sole surviving officer. Brister remained on Mahan to continue repairs—and so there'd be at least one officer aboard her if they had to move in a hurry.

Three of the nurses and the Army pilots were also in the room. Courtney Bradford leaned against the far bulkhead since there were too few chairs, and Juan circulated through the crowd filling coffee cups from the two carafes in his hands. Everyone was sweating in the stifling heat, and cigarette smoke eddied and vented away through the punctures in the hull that made up two of the wardroom walls. In the general hubbub, the captain wasn't immediately noticed. Garrett shouted over the din:

"Captain on deck!"

Everyone came to attention, with the exception of Captain Kaufman, who continued leaning against the bulkhead with an expression of hostile disdain.

"As you were, gentlemen . . . and ladies," Matt added for the nurses' benefit. Even exhausted, he noticed that the nurses were young and attractive, and he recognized the one who had brought coffee to the bridge and made a small nod of appreciation. One of them, though, the lieutenant, returned his gaze with a frank appraisal of her own.

What Sandra saw was a very tired young man who'd been violently forced to shoulder extraordinary responsibilities under very stressful— and unusual—circumstances. They all knew their predicament, or at least thought they did, and it was no secret that there'd been strange goings-on.

She detected uncertainty beneath his veneer of confidence, but whether that reflected the situation, the unusual events, or the heavy burden of responsibility for two badly damaged ships and all their people, she didn't know. Instinctively, her heart went out to him. She was a nurse, and she knew when a man was suffering, even through gritted teeth. Though his injuries were superficial, the wounds to his ship and her people were reflected in his eyes.

Matt had the uneasy feeling, looking into her green eyes, that the nurse lieutenant saw beyond his facade of calm, and he quickly turned his attention to the room. "First, our own condition: I don't have all the details yet, but I have some idea. We can steam, our leaks are under control, and we have fuel for a twenty-knot run to Perth. Since our plans are contingent upon Mahan's capabilities, however, I think Mr. Ellis should start."

Jim nodded and cleared his throat. "Thanks, Skipper." He looked around the compartment. "Mahan took a hell of a beating. She's not sinking, but everything topside is a wreck. Half her crew is dead and there're twenty wounded. Some seriously." He looked at the surprise on the assembled faces. "Yeah, that's a pretty lopsided number," he said grimly.

"Most of the casualties were on the bridge and in the aft fireroom. Everybody in the pilothouse or on the fire-control platform was killed. She has no fire control at all. Guns two and four are okay, and we can use them in local control, but that's it. Number one might be repaired, but we haven't really even checked." He sighed wearily. "The machine guns amidships are okay, so we're not totally helpless from the air, but all torpedoes are expended and I'd rather not push her past fifteen knots. She can make that, the forward fireroom's fine, it's just . . . well"—he gestured at the beams of light entering the wardroom through the holes—"you know.

"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.

She looked back at the group of officers and saw the fatigue in their expressions—the tired, bloodshot eyes and haunted looks as they too glanced nervously toward Bali now and then. Captain Reddy looked little better than the others, but she admired the way he hid the fear and uncertainty he must feel. He just stood there, listening attentively and nodding occasionally. When she heard his murmured words, she was encouraged by how calm he sounded. She found it ironic and unsettling that, shortly before, she had been evaluating his steadiness from a perspective of self-confidence. Now she looked to him for reassurance.

Courtney Bradford had recovered himself, and now leaned against the port bridgewing rail, oblivious to the concerns of others and staring in rapt fascination through binoculars. She moved beside him.

"Are they truly . . . dinosaurs?" she asked in a quiet voice.

He nodded vigorously. "Of course! They do seem rather small, compared to what we were given to expect by the scale of most assembled fossils. But indeed, there can be nothing else to call them. Obviously, they shouldn't be here! I've studied the charts, and I've been here before. That island is Bali. The only difference is the lack of agricultural terracing and, well, the dinosaurs, of course! The terracing is strange enough. It hasn't been very long since my last visit, and I can assure you that even with a concerted effort and heavy machinery, the terraces couldn't possibly have been removed so thoroughly as to leave no trace they ever existed. As for the dinosaurs?" He shrugged and smiled happily. "I have no explanation."

"But surely . . . what could've happened?" She pointed across the water. "Those things have been gone for millions of years! You don't think . . . " She couldn't finish.

"Once again, I have no idea," Bradford replied cheerfully. "Perhaps that disconcerting squall had some unusual effect beyond what we experienced? Perhaps. Time travel?" He snorted. "Hardly. If the Squall did something to us, it didn't send us back in time! Time travel is, of course, impossible. Besides, during the age those creatures"—he waved toward land—"roamed the earth, the shorelines were shaped quite differently. Warmer temperatures, higher water . . . These islands are frightfully volcanic. They might not have even existed!" He pointed shoreward again. "That is Bali! So whatever is afoot, we're in the now, if you follow my meaning? Of course you do."

"But if this is now, where is it now? And where is the now we should be in?" Her voice was almost pleading. "Dinosaurs on Bali are impossible too, aren't they?"

"Precisely."

They didn't run the strait that night. Instead, they remained at anchor and continued repairs while the officers pondered what to do. It was clear now, beyond doubt, that something extraordinary had befallen them. Bradford's argument that they hadn't been transported back in time was gratefully accepted, for the most part, but that left the burning question of what had happened. Was this simply some bizarre phenomenon localized in the vicinity where the Squall had occurred? Or had they been transported somehow to an entirely alien world? No. That couldn't be. The stars were right, the sliver of moon did exactly what it should as it traversed the heavens overhead, and the charts showed them to be exactly where they were—anchored snugly between Bali and Menjangan Island.

But that couldn't be. Nothing that had happened since the fight with Amagi and their subsequent entry into the Squall had been normal. The moon, the stars, the sun itself, and the very air they breathed—the smell of the sea upon which they gently rocked—all testified to their senses that nothing had changed. But there were monsters in the water and giant lizards on the land, and that couldn't be.

Despite all their planning in the wardroom that day, no one knew how to proceed. If they'd been transported to another time or place, what about the Japanese? Were they still in danger from attack? If they went to Perth, would it even be there? Like any good destroyer commander, even in the face of such profound questions, Matt immediately began to worry about fuel. What if the phenomenon extended to Australia? Where would they get fuel? If it was even possible that Perth was gone, should they risk wasting all their fuel to get there? These were the questions he pondered now. The immediate concerns. What they would do in the long run hadn't even entered his tired mind.

Like most destroyermen in the Asiatic Fleet, Matt had no family back home, besides his parents, to concern him. A lot of the old hands left wives and sweethearts in the Philippines, but most of them had already resigned themselves to the fact that there was nothing they could do for them while the Japanese ran unchecked. Even when they steamed away from Cavite that last time, Matt was struck by the stoicism of most of the married men. They knew they might never return. If they did, that would  be good. If they didn't, they'd keep fighting until they did. It was all very matter-of-fact. Whatever had occurred when they entered the squall had created a whole slew of distracting implications, and he wondered how the men would react to leaving their whole world behind? He wasn't yet prepared to deal with that. Right now, his primary concern was for the safety of Walker and Mahan and their crews—and how best to use their fuel.

Utter fatigue finally forced him to turn in, but before he did, he ordered Jim to shut down one of Mahan's boilers. Walker would keep both hers lit, just in case, but henceforth, they would conserve fuel any way they could. It was all he could do. Perhaps after some sleep he would think of something. Maybe he'd wake from this terrible dream and find that all he had to worry about, once more, was the Japanese. He stripped off his sweat-sodden uniform and lay on his bunk. The small, rattling, oscillating fan on the bulkhead labored to move the dank, stifling air. He was so very tired, but a vast tension clutched his chest. Even as he reached to turn off the light, the ghosts and monsters of the last few days began to gather around.

Captain Reddy was sitting in his chair on the bridge when the forenoon watch came on at 0800. The familiar routine of the watch change had a soothing effect that helped dispel the unpleasant aftereffects of unremembered nightmares that had plagued his sleep. Lieutenant Garrett relieved Larry Dowden, who immediately went in search of a cool place to rest. Garrett looked like he'd had a difficult night too, and he acted for a moment as if he had something to say. But then he stepped onto the port bridgewing where Courtney Bradford stood. The Australian was waiting impatiently for the morning fog to disperse so he could view Bali's wonders once more. Matt stood and stretched, and then went back to stare at the chart. He heard the sound of someone climbing the ladder at the rear of the pilothouse and checked his watch. Right on time.

"Morning, Jim."

"Morning, sir," Jim Ellis replied.

"Sleep well?" Jim made a wry face and stifled a yawn, theatrically. Matt chuckled. "Look, I've made a decision you're not going to like, but I don't see any alternative." Matt's former exec looked at him questioningly. "I'm going to take Walker to Surabaya and have a look around. If everything's as it should be, we'll still have fuel for a slow run to Australia. If the . . . phenomenon has affected Surabaya like Bali, we can only assume the same is true for Perth, if not the whole world. If that's the case . . . Well, we'll figure out what to do. If Surabaya's unchanged, or we run into Japs, we'll turn around and collect you. Mahan will remain here until then. I'll leave three of the nurses and all the most seriously wounded with you." He grimaced. "I know you're shorthanded, so I won't leave you the prisoner to guard, but I will inflict Captain Kaufman on you. Maybe you can get some work out of him. I think his lieutenant will be a help, at least." He motioned toward Bradford. "I don't know whether to leave him here to gawk at the animals or take him along. He might prove useful again if we have to scrounge for fuel."

"I don't like you leaving, sir, but it sounds like as good a plan as any. Mahan would just slow you down and give you something else to worry about in a fight." Jim grinned. "As for Mr. Bradford, I'd just as soon you take him. I'd have to watch him constantly to keep him from swimming ashore, sea monsters or not. As you said, if I don't have men to guard a Jap, I sure can't keep up with him."

Matt chuckled. "Very well. We might as well get started. If we're not back in three days, proceed to Perth alone. Alor will be our rally point. If we don't meet you there . . . we're not coming."

The unusual mists had mostly cleared by the time the personnel were transferred and Walker's anchor chain clanked and rattled through the hawse and into the well. The special sea and anchor detail directed a spray of seawater from the fire hose on the chain as it came aboard. Matt stepped out on the starboard bridgewing and peered at the enigmatic Menjangan. He noticed the wind had begun to swing the bow toward it, now that the anchor had cleared the bottom.

"Starboard engine ahead slow." He spoke quietly, but his voice carried to the helmsman.

"Starboard ahead slow, aye," confirmed Tony Scott. Matt sighed. The routine of ship handling soothed the tension of their predicament. The anchor came aboard as the ship twisted to maintain her position and the men on the fo'c'sle leaned against the safety chains to hose the mud and weed off the anchor. It was a procedure he'd witnessed many times, but for the first time he truly appreciated the efficient and matter-of-fact way the deck-apes accomplished it. He was glad to see that no matter what happened, some things never changed. Things like duty.

Suddenly the intercom buzzed, and the bridge talker opened the circuit to the lookout, Alfred Vernon, in the crow's nest.

"Bridge! I have a surface target! Bearing three five zero! Range . . . damn! It's hard to tell. The mist is still heavy in the strait. I make it six zero, double zero! Whatever it is, it's big!" Vernon's voice was pitched high with excitement.

"Sound general quarters!" shouted Matt. "Signal Mahan to head for the rally point. We'll . . . distract whoever it is and catch up tonight!"

In the aft fireroom, Spanky had just returned the coffeepot to its place near the burner when the general alarm sounded. Then the bells rang up AHEAD FLANK and all hell broke loose. He dropped his cup reaching for something to hold on to, and it shattered. The stern crouched down as the big screws bit and Walker surged ahead. The Mice and the water tender worked frantically to keep water out of the turbines. The blowers roared and raw fuel gushed straight into the stacks. Isak swore when the coffeepot fell to the deck, sending scalding liquid sloshing across his legs. Men scampered about, sliding the loosened deck plates back where they belonged as the ship picked up speed, but began settling back into a relatively normal and only slightly nerve-racking acceleration.

Spanky looked around at the aftermath of chaos and wiped sweat from his brow as he checked for blown gauges. "Bloody hell!" he muttered. "I guess the Skipper didn't take the hint when I asked him to take it easy."