Taylor Anderson - Maelstrom

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

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

“Mornin’, Boats.”

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

“Maybe…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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