"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 ou
t, 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.
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