Taylor Anderson: Into the Storm

Sandra’s eyes narrowed, and for an instant she hesitated. She’d faced this kind of attitude all her life and it was particularly pervasive in the military. Her father had perhaps been the worst, refusing to accept that she might do something with her life other than wait for “the right guy” to come along. His restrictions and expectations might have been couched more gently than Stevens’s, but they were no less corrosive and condescending. And wrong. She’d proven that. She straightened her back and forced a smile.

“Surgeon’s Mate Stevens, is it not?” she asked, and her voice held an icy calm. Stevens arched an eyebrow, but jerked an aggressive nod.

“Your captain asked that we report to you and that’s what we’ve done. I know this is your ‘hospital’ and I’m prepared to defer to you.” Her voice took on a dangerous edge. “But since you insist on wallowing in your ‘lowly Warrant’ status I’ll remind you I’m a LIEUTENANT in the United States Navy. My ensigns might not pull rank on you, but I SURE AS HELL WILL! You’re clearly not a gentleman, so I won’t appeal to you as one, but as a superior officer I insist you get up off your skinny ass and show the respect due my rank or by God, I’ll have you up on charges for insubordination!”

Her voice had risen as she spoke, until her final exclamation was uttered as a roar that her small form seemed incapable of producing. Jamie Miller’s chair hit the deck as he rocketed to attention. Even the wounded Marine struggled to his feet, his face a study of embarrassment mingled with respect. Doc Stevens remained seated a few moments more, but finally he stood also, an expression of mocking insolence on his face. He threw an exaggerated salute.

“Your orders, ma’am?” The question dripped sarcasm, but Sandra smiled in anticipation of his reaction. She looked at Jamie. “You!”

“Pharmacist’s Mate Miller, ma’am.”

“Mr. Miller, stow those dominoes and disinfect that table this instant. We could have casualties at any moment.” She looked at the blood-soaked bandage the Marine wore. “Are you even fit for duty?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Hmm. I doubt it, but we’ll see. We’ll have a look at that leg presently, circumstances permitting.”

Stevens cleared his throat. “And what about me?” he demanded, surly. Sandra was sorely tempted to upbraid him again, but instead she smiled sweetly and indicated the rest of the nurses.

“You, MISTER Stevens… will tell us what you want us to do next. This is your ‘hospital,’ after all.”

Matt had already forgotten his encounter with Captain Kaufman. He had far more important concerns. A Morse-lamp message from Captain Gordon was composed of only three words: “Enemy in sight.” Exeter’s lookoutshad a higher vantage point than Rodriguez, but just a few moments later Garrett held his earpiece tight against his head and looked up.

“Sir! Rodriguez sees them too. Still dead astern, but coming up fast. They must be making thirty-five knots!” He sounded incredulous. Matt nodded. Even without Exeter slowing them down, Walker couldn’t outrun them. Not anymore.

“Very well, Mr. Garrett. Return to your station. Mr. Rogers?” he said to the first officer. “Relieve Rodriguez in the crow’s nest, if you please. If we can see them, they can hit us. Lieutenant Flowers”-he addressed the navigating officer-“take the conn.”

Flowers spoke to the man holding the brightly polished wheel. “I relieve you, sir.”

The seaman relinquished his post. “Mr. Flowers has the conn,” he responded and looked around, at a loss. Matt motioned for him to put on a headset.

“Sound general quarters again. We’ve been at battle stations all morning, but somebody might be fooling around in the head.”

The rhythmic, ill-sounding gong, gong, gong of the general alarm reverberated throughout the ship.

In the aft fireroom, Brad “Spanky” McFarlane, the engineering officer, wiped sweat from his narrow face and shook it off his hand to join the black, slimy slurry on the deck plates. In the space containing the number three and four boilers, it was at least 130 degrees. He barely heard the sound of the alarm over the thundering blower and the roar of the burners as atomized fuel oil was consumed at a prodigious rate.

“Gotta get back to the forward engine room. That’s the second time they’ve sounded GQ. Maybe they mean it this time.”

Firemen Isak Reuben on the blower control and Gilbert Yager on the burner nodded, but paid him no further attention. They were both entirely focused on their tasks. Their two jobs, and that of the water tender, required careful concentration. Too much fuel and not enough air, and black smoke billowed from the stacks, earning an instant reprimand from the captain and the scorn of their fellow “snipes.” Not enough feed water in the lines, and white steam rose overhead. Too much water, not enough air and fuel, and water instead of steam sprayed into the turbines. That could damage the delicate blades. Isak and Gilbert were magicians at their jobs and the very best he had, but McFarlane didn’t know what to think of them otherwise. They were inseparable, but rarely talked to anyone else. They were both wiry, intense little men, and neither seemed to mind the hellish temperatures in which they worked. Even off duty, they lingered in the vicinity of their posts-which annoyed the men on watch. They never caused any trouble, but they didn’t make friends and they didn’t play on the ship’s baseball team. They just kept to themselves. The other snipes called them the White Mice, or just the Mice, because of their similar, almost rodent-like expressions and because they never went above deck if they could help it. Therefore, their otherwise perpetually sooty skins had an unhealthy pallor. The only explanation McFarlane ever got was that if they spent too much time in the “cool” air on deck, they’d lose their tolerance for the temperatures in the fireroom. McFarlane shrugged and stepped to the air lock. They were squirrels, sure enough, but they were his squirrels.

He cycled through the air lock into the forward engine room. He was shaped much like the Mice, and he barely had to squat to step through. The large compartment was filled by the big turbines and a maze of steam lines and conduits, but he moved among them with practiced ease to the enclosed intercom by the main throttle control. “Throttle manned and ready,” he said into the mouthpiece. The talker on the bridge acknowledged, and Spanky looked at the other throttlemen. They looked back with almost pathetically hopeful expressions. They were all so young, and the faith they placed in him and their “new” captain made him feel uncomfortable.

He wasn’t much of a poker player. He disliked games of chance. He felt at ease only when he was totally in control of everything it was his business to control. Right now his business was the engines, and cantankerous as they were, he could handle that. He couldn’t influence the outcome of anything beyond the confines of his engine room, and in a way he was glad. Deep inside, however, was a feeling like the one he hated whenever he did play poker: knowing that his destiny, or at least a portion of his pay, was at the mercy of the cardboard rectangle held carelessly in the dealer’s hand and knowing that luck alone would dictate how it affected him. He understood the sense of frustrated helplessness plaguing the young sailors nearby. It gnawed him too. But he couldn’t let it show- just as the captain couldn’t. All he could do was hope for an ace. Somehow, they’d drawn the right cards so far, in spite of their deficiencies, but the Japanese kept stacking the deck. He hoped Captain Reddy had some card tricks of his own, because that was what they’d need to survive this call.