N ervously, Matt endured the one-handed shave. Somehow-even Juan couldn’t remember exactly how or when-the Filipino had apparently broken his left arm during the terrible storm. He swore it hadn’t been when the ship nearly capsized; he’d have remembered that. He was darkly suspicious that it happened when Earl Lanier fell on him sometime later. Now the arm hung suspended in a sling while Matt did his best to project calm indifference as Juan’s shaky, unsupported razor scraped the stubble from his face. The sea was almost calm at last. The morning sky was blue, with a purple-tinged fleece of clouds. The typhoon, Strakka, or whatever it was, had passed, and like other Strakkas he’d experienced, there wasn’t any fooling around. When it was gone, it was gone. There was no lingering stormy aftereffect. In seas where land was near, there was always a tremendous detritus of shredded vegetation, trees, and tumbling corpses of fish and animals. The corpses never lasted long once the sea calmed down. At least within the Malay Barrier, flasher fish took care of that. Out here, in the broad Pacific, he didn’t know. Lanier, who fished over the side whenever the ship was at ease, hadn’t caught any flashies off their little atoll, although he caught plenty of other stuff. No, out here, the end of the Strakka had almost a cleansing effect; as if in its might it had absorbed and scoured the sea clear of all but the mildest weather.
They’d been lucky for once. The only thing that saved them, apparently, was that the monstrous wave hadn’t actually broken over the ship, crushing her like a bobbing beer can. Evidently, it had risen in their path, moving in vaguely the same direction they were. There’d been no real warning as such-even Chack hadn’t seen it in time for that-and all they’d been able to do was try to claw up its flank. They didn’t make it. The thing was just too steep, and even now no one had any real idea how high the wave ultimately crested. In spite of the wind and the direction of the swells, the top of the wave must have split of its own accord beneath the titanic weight it had amassed. Walker simply dropped over onto her side when part of this avalanche of falling sea landed upon her.
Matt, like all seamen, had long heard tales of “rogue waves” that reached to the sky, “white squalls” made of almost solid, windblown water. He admitted that he’d always put both in the same category as mermaids and sea monsters. Now he knew there were sea monsters and “white squalls” weren’t the most unusual squalls that one might encounter. Clearly, “rogue waves” existed too, and he wondered uncomfortably just how “rogue” they actually were on this world. The terror of the event still resonated within him, and even if the details of what he’d done and how he’d reacted had blurred, the overall sense of crushing, swirling hopelessness and failure wouldn’t go away. It had been that close.
Grimly, he counted the cost yet again. They’d lost seven people, all’Cats, over the side. Just gone. Both bridgewing lookouts were swept away. Most of the rest were lost while trying to secure the plane and boats and any number of other things that had been torn loose on deck. The sea had continued to run high for an interminable period, and the safety chains and lifelines simply hadn’t been up to the task. One of the launches was a total wreck, and the Nancy had suffered some damage as well. Reynolds was surveying it now to see if it could be repaired. The number three boiler had burst when they took water down the stack. It hadn’t been a catastrophic break, but the seams were blown and all the firebrick inside had exploded and practically shredded the tubes and tanks. Four more ’Cats had died in the fireroom and nearly everyone who’d been in there was injured to some degree.
Tabby was probably the worst. Somehow she’d managed to shut off the fuel and feed water to the damaged boiler in the smoke- and steamchoked compartment. She’d even closed the cut-out valve, ensuring that steam still reached the turbines from the undamaged boilers, before she’d finally been overcome. By so doing, she’d literally saved the ship and all those aboard her. Walker would have been doomed without steerageway. In the process, however, she’d burnt her lungs and been badly scalded. She was in the wardroom now, with half a dozen other bad cases. Her fur was coming off in bloody clumps and her labored breathing sounded like a sub’s diesel exhaust when water washes over the vents. Matt had been to see her, to see them all, and he figured Tabby was done for. Oddly, Selass offered some hope. Not much, but some. Matt didn’t know how she could, but he prayed she was right.
There were many other injuries, serious and light, ranging from broken bones, like Juan’s arm, to the big, stitched-up cut running along the Bosun’s jaw. Campeti had a concussion. One of the ’Cats, an ordnance striker named Faal-Pel, who’d previously been known as “Pall-Mall,” had instantly gained a new nickname when he somehow contrived to lose half his tail. Matt supposed Faal-Pel would be stuck with “Stumpy” forever. Objectively, it could have been much, much worse, and looking back over their adventures and his poor old ship’s many trials, he realized it usually had been. He had to concede that, in all honesty, this time they actually had been “lucky.”
Achilles had been “lucky” too, in that she’d survived the storm, but otherwise, not so much. Walker ’s wireless array had been damaged again, and they’d lost all contact with Jenks’s ship during the storm. Even when the aerial was repaired, they couldn’t reach Achilles. By chance, they found her the following day while crisscrossing their path to leeward. She’d been almost dismasted by the blow, and her starboard paddle wheel was a wreck. Matt was seriously concerned that the once beautiful, formidable ship may have endured too much. She’d been almost two years at sea, had fought a major action, and now had gone through the worst storm imaginable. He hoped she could reach Respite. With the same concerns, Jenks allowed Walker to take Achilles under tow. As if to show how fickle fate could truly be, they sighted Icarus later that evening, looking as though she’d missed the storm completely. Of Ulysses there was no sign.
“We can fix the boiler,” Spanky said roughly, and coughed. His eyes were red and there were bandages on his forearms. He’d been one of the first into the aft fireroom and had sucked in some steam as well. He’d also personally carried Tabby to the wardroom, snarling “Don’t touch her!” at anyone who tried to take her from him. “Actually, we can rebuild it. We’re carrying more spare stuff than the old Blackhawk ever had for us.” Blackhawk had been their destroyer tender in the Asiatic Fleet. “It’ll take time and a lot of work, though. When I say ‘rebuild,’ I mean rebuild. Hell, even the casing’s warped.” He shook his head. “We’ve got a lot more water than usual coming in around the starboard shaft packing too, but otherwise, engineering came through okay.” He paused. “I mean, other than a lot of people hurt… and the dead, of course.”
“Of course.”
The Bosun was gingerly feeling his jaw. “I never would’ve believed it,” he said. “Thin as this old gal’s skin is, I figured we’d have a thousand leaks after a beating like that, but she came through like a submarine.”
“Hey,” Spanky growled, “I was there when damn near every new rivet went in. You weren’t. She’s tighter than a drum. And not all her steel’s so thin anymore. We rolled the new plates out to original spec. That’s why it sticks up in some places when your apes bitch about the paint scraping.”
“Is that so? Well, I wasn’t bitching.”
Spanky looked almost accusingly at the Bosun. It was as if, having failed to rise to his argumentative bait, Gray had let him down. His next words, words they’d all been avoiding, confirmed it. “Then what are we going to do about the dead, anyway?”
Juan wiped the remnants of soap off the Captain’s face and beat a hasty retreat. He wanted no part of this discussion.
Matt rubbed his face and took a deep breath. “Damned if I know. All the dead… still aboard… were ’Cats this time, mostly in the fireroom.” He lowered his voice. “We can’t cremate them the Lemurian way, and I don’t know how they’ll feel about burial at sea. Carrying them back to Baalkpan isn’t even an option. Neither is waiting until we reach Respite. We’re still at least a week out.”
“Ask Chack,” Gray suggested.
Spanky shook his head and looked away. “I’ll ask Tabby,” he said huskily. “Leavin’ out Chack’s Marine rank, she actually kind of outranks him now, anyway. Besides…” He couldn’t finish.
Lieutenant (jg) Fred Reynolds looked at the PB-1B Nancy from every angle, still amazed that the plane had survived the storm in one piece
… mostly. Kari-Faask imitated nearly his every move. She was just as concerned as he was about the condition of the plane, though she’d have been relieved if the damn thing had been totally destroyed or just washed over the side. She wasn’t nearly as keen on flying as her friend and pilot was. Since the plane wasn’t wrecked, she intended to make sure it was as well maintained as possible-as long as her precious hide might have to ride in it again.
“The motor plumb flooded,” announced Jeek, the flight crew chief. “We take whole thing off, replace with spare. Gaas tank, all gaas lines, come out, dry out. Use big air blow!” he said, referring to air from the ship’s compressor. “We take wet motor apart, dry out, new spare!” He seemed proud of his ingenuity. They had five spare engines for the Nancy, and an entire spare plane broken down and stowed in the aft deckhouse. Remembering that, Kari sighed. If they’d been down to the “spare” plane, that would have probably just left them making more dangerous flights.
