Destroyermen its-1

by Taylor Anderson

  "How long have we been here, and how long have you been working on it? Will it fly?" Everyone saw the hope kindle in his eyes.

  "A week or so, and"—he lowered his voice—"another couple days'll have her in the air."

  The general alarm sounded and they all jumped. "Battle stations, battle stations! Make all preparations for getting under way!" They looked at each other, perplexed by the commands. Suddenly Frankie Steele skidded to a stop outside the compartment.

  "There're ships in the strait!"

  "Ships?" demanded Jim.

  "Aye, sir . . . Glad to see you better! But big sailing ships, like in the movies—only these are real—and they're headed this way!"

  Jim looked at Brister and Mallory. "Go!" he said. "Save that plane!

  Don't let Kaufman leave it!" Without another word, the men charged out of the compartment. On the weather deck they met Ed Palmer, rushing down to meet them.

  "Go!" said Brister. "Get what you can. Food, water, whatever you can think of, and meet us at the whaleboat!"

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Make a deal with the devil!" he snarled and mounted the steps to the bridge. Kaufman was staring at the distant ships through binoculars, and his hands were shaking. "Captain Kaufman! What about the plane? We can't just leave it here! Hell, we can have it flying by the end of the day!

  What are we running from?" Kaufman looked at him, and his bloodshot eyes were wide and glassy. He hadn't shaved or even combed his hair in days. There was nothing left of the cocky aviator Brister had first met when he came aboard off Menjangan. His face had the look of a hunted, panicked animal, and his condition had infected much of the crew.

  "Here!" Kaufman said, handing him the binoculars. His voice was shrill. In the distance, three red-hulled sailing ships struggled to beat up toward them. He focused a little more, and a chill swept down his back.

  "Those aren't people," he said lamely. They were monsters.

  "Now you see why we have to go?" Kaufman insisted with manic sarcasm. "Hoist that boat aboard!"

  "Wait," said Brister, licking his lips. "The current and wind are both against them. It'll be hours before they reach us. Let us try to finish the plane." He paused and tried a different tack. "If we do, we'll fly to Ceylon.

  Get help! Maybe they'll send an escort." That got through.

  "Will you stake your life you can take off before they get here?"

  Brister nodded.

  "Good, because we won't wait. Mr. Monroe!" he said, raising his voice. "Take Mr. Brister and his assistants ashore, then return as quick as you can!"

  "You won't even leave us a boat?" Brister asked, incredulous.

  "No. You can go ashore, destroy the plane, and come back with Mr. Monroe, or you can try to fly it out. The choice is yours."

  Perry shook his head. "Captain Kaufman, you are a coward, sir."

  Without another word, he turned and dashed down the ladder. On the way to shore, he told the others what had happened.

  "The hell with him. I'd rather take my chances with the plane," Mallory exclaimed. Palmer said nothing, but his face was grim.

  "You didn't see what I saw," Brister said. "I think our visitors are the same ones that wiped out . . . whatever they were at Chilachap. It's either fly or die."

  The coxswain with Monroe giggled.

  They reached the shore and tossed their gear on the beach beside the plane. "At least give us a hand bailing!" shouted Perry as the whaleboat pulled away.

  "Mahan's already pullin' the hook!" shouted Monroe. "I'm not going to be left behind." He threw a mocking salute. "It's your funeral!"

  "Bastard!" Palmer was seething.

  They turned to look at the plane. Brister hoped he could make good on his vow. He didn't know what was coming, but that one look had scared the hell out of him. "Well, what are we waiting for?"

  They dove into their task with frantic abandon. They were too busy even to notice when Mahan steamed away, but when they did pause for a quick look, it seemed that one of the strange ships was trying to follow her. It was no use, of course, and it quickly turned back toward the bay.

  They'd seen the Catalina, and either the tide was making or the wind shifted just enough, because they were getting closer.

  "Bail, damn it!" Brister yelled, and buckets of water flew from the observation blisters. The tide was making, because suddenly they were floating, but they were still too heavy to fly. Mallory leaned on his bucket, gasping, and watched the closing ships.

  "No way," he said. "We have to get off this beach before they box us in."

  "She's still too heavy!"

  "Yeah, but not too heavy to move." He scrambled up to the flight deck.

  "Palmer, throw off the mooring line!"

  Ed hesitated. "But the fish might get me!"

  "Those things'll get us all if you don't! You can reach it through the nose turret! Can you operate the gun?" A .30-caliber machine gun was enclosed in a Plexiglas turret in the nose of the plane.

  "Yeah . . ." he said, a little uncertainly, but he dodged his way forward.

  The plane was floating almost freely now. A few nerve-racking moments passed.

  "Got it!" came Palmer's muffled shout, and the nose immediately swung away from the beach.

  "C'mon, babies!" Mallory said, and then whooped when both engines coughed to life. With throttles and rudder, he pointed the nose at the bay.

  The ships were much closer, and now he could see the creatures upon them with unaided eyes. "Oh, boy!" he shouted. "Here they come! I'm gonna try to motor around them, so keep bailing till I tell you, but be ready to get on a gun as quick as you can!" There was also a .50-caliber machine gun in each observation blister, but that was the extent of the PBY's armaments.

  "Jeez, they're scary-lookin'," breathed Palmer, glancing forward.

  "Yeah," panted Brister. "Bail!" Mallory advanced the throttles, and the big plane began to move.

  "They're almost making a lane for us, like they want at us from both sides!" he shouted. "I'll make for it. Be ready on those fifties, in case they try to close the gap!"

  Closer and closer the roaring engines took them. Soon they edged between the two ships, and the details they beheld were nightmarish.

  "Shit!" Palmer screamed when something "thunked" into the thick aluminum beside him. It was an arrow! As quick as that, the plane drummed with impacts. "Shit!" he repeated. "They're shootin' at us!"

  "Let 'em have it!" Brister yelled, and they opened fire on both of the terrible ships. Clouds of splinters flew where the tracers pointed, and bodies fell from the rails. A keening shriek reached them even over the guns, the engines, and the clattering, heavy brass cases that fell around them. "Pour it in!" he shouted as the incoming barrage began to slack off.

  A big greasy ball of flame erupted right behind the starboard wing and actually singed his hair. "What the hell was that? Step on it, Ben!"

  Mallory needed no encouragement. He'd watched the "bomb" all the way in. He pushed the throttles to their stops. Sluggishly, the waterlogged plane picked up speed. The roar of the engines and hammering guns made it too loud to think. Another explosion washed the sea, but it missed them safely aft. The faster target must have spoiled their aim. Then, as quickly as the battle had begun, they sped clear of the monsters' ships and Brister shouted to hold their fire. The other ship was closing still, but at their current heading, it would never reach them in time to cut them off.

  Water from the massive wake they made splashed in through the blisters and hissed on the barrels of the superheated guns.

  Brister turned to Palmer, eyes wide. "Wow!"

  There was still a lot of water in the plane, but they plowed upwind as far as they could before they powered down. Mallory left the motors idling, props feathered, and helped them bail some more.

  "Talk about your floating freak shows!" he gasped, throwing water past the gun. "Damn plane looks like a pincushion! Goddamn arrows!"

  "Just be glad they weren't mus
kets or cannons," said Brister. "We wouldn't have had a chance! Arrows and firebombs were bad enough!"

  "I'll say! What now?" Palmer asked.

  "Keep bailing," Ben replied. "A few hundred more pounds and we'll get her in the air. Then we can dump what's left." He grinned. "Once we do that, start looking for holes!"

  Less than an hour later, the battered seaplane clawed into the air and followed after Mahan. Mallory didn't know if the monsters saw them or not, now they were stuck in the bay. If they did, he wondered what they thought. The plane quickly overtookMahan and landed at her side. Brister seethed with rage at the man who'd left them to their fate, but to his surprise Kaufman met them himself in the whaleboat with smiles and waves.

  "Keep hold of yourself," Mallory said. "Remember, we're going to fly to Ceylon and save the day. Stick to the plan!" Brister simmered down, but all he wanted to do was kill the Army captain with his bare hands.

  "Let's just shoot him with the thirty in the nose," Palmer said through a clenched-teeth grin.

  "Won't work. Like Mr. Ellis said before he got sick, he's got too many on his side. Even if we got him, there might be a bloodbath. Some of 'em are crazy as he is, and they have all the guns."

  "Okay," said Mallory, adjusting the throttles so he wouldn't smack the boat as it came alongside. "I'll stay with the plane—I have to. Get all the fuel and anything else you can think of. Maps, more food, whatever.

  Maybe even more people, but don't be too obvious. We know he won't let Mr. Ellis come."

  "Right." Together, Perry and Ed jumped in the whaleboat.

  "You really did it!" Kaufman gushed. "Did you have much trouble?"

  "No," lied Brister cheerfully. "Piece of cake. Let's hurry up and get the fuel on board. The quicker we're back in the air, the quicker we'll be in Ceylon!"

  Kaufman refused to allow anyone to accompany them. Three was enough, he said, to risk on such a dangerous flight. Perry did manage to slip away to "get some gear," and he went to see Jim Ellis before he left the ship. Jim was trying to climb the companionway stairs when he found him, supported by crutches and Pam Cross and Kathy McCoy. Beth Grizzel wasn't there.

  "You made it," he said. "Thank God."

  "Yes, sir. Thank God. No thanks to that bastard Kaufman. He left us to die."

  "I know. Listen, you must find Walker! Kaufman's nuts; half the crew's nuts. It's just a matter of time before he kills us all. You know as well as I do, Ceylon's not there. There's no telling what is. Find Walker, find Captain Reddy . . ." He gasped from the effort of his words and exertions.

  "We will."

  "Tell him I'm sorry I failed him. I'm sorry I let the men down."

  "It's not your fault, sir!"

  "Isn't it?" Jim sighed. "Maybe not, but it's my responsibility."

  "He shot you!"

  Jim laughed bitterly. "A good commander would have shot him first!

  Now get your ass out of here before Kaufman starts nosing around!"

  Perry looked at the two nurses. He hated to leave them behind, but Kaufman wouldn't part with them. The surgeon was acting funny, and the nurses were it. There were still a lot of wounded on the ship. Besides, their errand might be doomed from the start. They had only so much fuel and they had no idea where Walker was.

  "Aye, aye, sir." Perry Brister said, and shook Jim Ellis's hand. Pam stepped quickly forward and planted a kiss lightly on his cheek.

  "For luck!" she said, then punched his shoulder. Hard. "Tell Lieutenant Tucker we're keeping the faith." She glanced at Kathy and grimaced.

  "Two out of three anyway. Beth's as crazy as Kaufman." She shrugged and kissed him again, on the mouth this time. "Double luck! Now git out'a heah!" Blushing, Perry saluted Lieutenant Ellis and raced for the boat.

  Later, when they thundered into the darkening sky and circled the lonely, misguided ship for the last time, Brister thought he caught a glimpse of Lieutenant Ellis leaning on his crutches by the rail, a small group gathered around him.

  The two and a half weeks since Walker's arrival had been a whirlwind of frantic activity. Despite acknowledging the danger they faced, Matt suspected the 'Cats weren't quite prepared for the pace the destroyermen set.

  The trauma of getting their economy and society on a war footing was causing a stir, but Matt and his crew knew what had happened at Pearl Harbor and Clark Field. They'd seen what happened at Cavite. They'd learned a hard lesson in preparedness, and as long as their fortunes were tied to those of their new friends, they wouldn't let them waste time they might later regret. Big Sal 's crew was equally motivated, and repairs to the big ship moved apace. The very day after the "party," Walker was moved to the pier and as extensive an overhaul as possible began. The number three gun was repaired, and all the circuits coordinating the main battery were checked and spliced. Steaming on only the number four boiler to maintain electrical power, they checked the other boilers and repaired firebrick. There was nothing to be done for number one so it was stripped and prepared for disassembly and removal. Spanky wanted the space for more fuel bunkerage—once they got fuel.

  The Baalkpan Lemurians were just as amazed as Big Sal's that Walker was made of steel. Whenever the welders went to work, the pier lined with spectators watching the sparks and eye-burning torches with as much enthusiasm as if it had been a fireworks display. Iron wasn't unknown to the People, but it was so hard to smelt that it was little used. Dave Elden had spent two years in a steel mill in Pittsburgh. He'd already talked to the proprietors of the foundry on the northeast of town, where he'd gone to have brass fittings cast. He reported they used the sand-cast method almost exclusively but were very good at it and there would be almost nothing they couldn't cast with a larger furnace and a little guidance. He even figured he could get them started on iron if a source for ore could be found.

  Half the snipes set out into the jungle with Courtney Bradford and about a hundred natives in search of oil. The procession had looked like a nineteenth-century safari. They hadn't searched long before they found a likely place. Bradford's charts and journals were helpful, and he had most of the Dutch surveys. As long as everything was the same geographically, there was every reason to believe that oil could be found in the same places it had been back "home." He hadn't yet shared his theory, but they'd all been very busy. Matt already suspected what the gist of it was and looked forward to the discussion, but for now there was too much to do.

  Materials were rafted upriver to the site, where, under the direction of the Mice, the men were constructing something called a Fort Worth Spudder. Captain Reddy had heard of the device but never seen one. His interview with the strange firemen was . . . an experience. He'd seen them many times, of course, but he didn't remember ever speaking with them.

  Their conversation about the rig was what he imagined it would be like to talk to an opossum with a parrot on its shoulder. But they convinced him they knew what to do and how to do it. He just hoped they could explain it to others in a coherent fashion.

  At the same time, men worked hard converting the tubes of the number three torpedo mount into a condensation tower. A place was being prepared near the drill site for their little refinery. A fueling pier with water deep enough for Walker to clear the silty riverbed was already under construction. The torpedo tubes were just a temporary expedient. Eventually they would build larger towers with greater capacity. But for now the empty tubes would have to do.

  Lemurians scampered all over the ship, helping as best they could.

  Often they got in the way, but shorthanded as the crew was, the benefit of their curious, good-natured assistance outweighed the aggravation. Chack became like a Lemurian bosun's mate, and his coordination of the native labor was indispensable.

  One morning, a large cart pulled by a "brontosarry" and driven by Alan Letts arrived, much to the delight of those aboard. The sight of the fair-skinned supply officer sitting on a seat under a colorful parasol— behind a dinosaur's rump—even brought a smile to the Chief 's face. The crew's a
musement quickly waned when they discovered what the cart was so heavily laden with. Somewhere the suddenly surprisingly resourceful supply officer had discovered keg after keg of white paint. Gray was guardedly ecstatic. He insisted on testing it, since nobody knew what was in it, or whether it would stick to steel. He wasn't about to let them smear a "bunch of whitewash" all over his topsides. When it proved satisfactory, he immediately began pestering Letts to find something they could mix it with to make a proper gray.

  "Hell, Bosun," Letts replied, "this bucket's spent more of her life white than gray. It's not like we're hiding from airplanes anymore."

  "Yah, but there's a war on, Mr. Letts. White's for peacetime."

  The torpedo repairs were put aside. They still had the three that hadn't fired during their escape from Surabaya, but the others would have to wait. Under the supervision of Chief Donaghey and Bernard Sandison— who'd become quite a machinist in his own right—the machine shop was constantly in use making parts for the ship. They had little scrap steel, though, and wherever it would serve, they used copper or brass—both of which were readily available from local sources. Shinya had been reassigned as Alden's assistant—training the militia—but he still liked to help in the shop when he could.

  It was in this maelstrom of apparent chaos, of flying sparks and paint chips, a fog of red rust dust, mazes of hoses and wires and a dozen different projects all over the ship, that they had their first visit by the High Chief of Baalkpan, Nakja-Mur.

  Matt had seen him many times since their first meeting, and someone, usually Garrett or Dowden, went ashore to talk with him every day. But until now, the closest Nakja-Mur had come to Walker was to pace her length on the pier alongside, the morning after she tied up. He was fascinated by the ship, and Keje said he never tired of hearing about Walker's role in the battle, but he'd never made an "official" visit and many were curious why. Now, with no warning whatsoever—a shocking impropriety among the People—the crowd of watchers and helpers on the dock parted and Nakja-Mur appeared at the gangway.