Taylor Anderson - Maelstrom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mine too,” the Bosun growled.

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

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