“What happened to him? Comm said he got on the plane…”
“Silva?” Mack asked. “Big guy? Eye patch?”
Ben looked at him. “Yeah.”
Mack shook his head. “It was the damnedest thing. The guy’s nuts. We talked about it with this Dutch nun, and she just said, ‘He’s always doing stuff like that.’ Say, you know? She acted horrified when he did it. Called him all sorts of things! But later, she seemed to think it was funny!”
“What did he do?” Ben asked, rolling his eyes.
Mack started to answer, but Bernie interrupted him. Sergeant Dixon had already told him. “He got on the plane through the port hatch, covered in grease, visited for a few minutes, then squirted out the starboard hatch right into the water!”
“In the water? On purpose?”
“Yeah,” Mack confirmed. “What’s the deal with the water?”
“Don’t get in it,” Ben murmured thoughtfully. “Especially in the shallows-like anywhere in the Malay Barrier… Grease? What did he say?”
“He said a lot of things that didn’t make any sense to us,” Dixon admitted, “mostly to the nun. But he did say the grease was an ‘experiment’ some old, ah, Lemurian named Moe suggested. Said it was time he ‘give it a shot, since he had too many orders to follow at the same time.’ Does that make any sense?”
“I hope that grease saved Silva’s miserable hide,” Bernie said darkly, “so I can kill that maniac myself!”
“Now hold on, Bernie,” Ben said. “Maybe he had a reason.” Ben caught himself. He didn’t really know Silva very well. He was an odd duck, that was certain, but why was he defending him? He shook his head. “Hang him when he gets home. In the meantime, don’t worry about it. You’ll bust a seam. Besides, from what I’ve heard, he’s more aggravation than he’s worth.”
Mack gestured at the hangars. “How many planes are ready to fly?”
“None,” Ben confessed. “That’s another reason I’m glad you guys are here. We’ve been bolting them together and getting them in the dry, but all the technical stuff has had to wait.” He looked at Dixon. “You know how to hook all that up?”
“Sure.”
“Good. Figure out what you need, labor and toolwise, and have at it.” He looked at the man. “But take it easy, wilya?”
“Yes, sir.” Dixon paused. “What about the guns? Where are they, and do you want them in?”
“They’re in that big warehouse, and hell yes, I want them in. Just two per plane for starters, though. We’ve got more guns than we can use, but ‘they’re’ thinking about sticking a gun in the nose of some of the ‘Nancys’-our single engine jobs-so we need to save back as many as we can. There might be a Jap plane out there somewhere, and right now all we’ve got to throw at it are spitballs. That’s another chore for you; familiarize yourself with the ‘Nancys.’ Figure out if they can handle a gun without shaking themselves apart, and if they can, cook up a way to mount one.”
“Yes, sir. Uh, Colonel Mallory? How come you call them ‘Nancys’?”
Bencs expression became pained. “ I don’t usually call them that, but I guess it’s stuck. Don’t worry about it; it’s a long story.”
CHAPTER 8
Mid Pacific
I say,” said Courtney Bradford, stunned, as if he’d just made some momentous discovery. “It’s Christmas Day!” He glared around the darkened bridge of USS Walker, casting a suddenly scandalized look at the new first lieutenant, Norman Kutas. Norm had been chief quartermaster’s mate, and still kept the log. Norm looked back, his scarred face crumpled in a frown, made even more gruesome by the poor light. He had the morning watch, 0400 to 0800, and was the only other human on the bridge.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Bradford, I know,” he said, “but it ain’t like there’s a Christmas tree, presents, and kiddos chompin’ at the bit.”
“There should be,” Courtney said with conviction. “We’ve let too many of our traditional observances fall by the wayside. It’s scandalous, sir! Scandalous! And here I was, left alone to discover it… It shall not stand!”
“I was going to mention it to the Skipper when the watch changes,” Kutas defended.
“But you didn’t ‘mention’ it to me! No ‘Merry Christmas, Mr. Bradford’ did I hear!”
“Well, with the rest of the bridge watch being ’Cats, who wouldn’t know Christmas from Armistice Day, I guess it slipped my mind. You’ve never been up this early, that I recall, and besides… I sort of figured with your ‘Darwin this,’ and ‘evolution that,’ you weren’t such a Holy Joe.”
“That’s the second time someone has questioned my faith on such an assumption!” Courtney declared. “And what would the captain do?” he demanded, righteous indignation beginning to swell. “Last Christmas came and went without so much as a notice…” He paused, reflecting. “Perhaps understandable, under the circumstances, but not twice in a row! I recall Captain Reddy took note of the unremarkable date of your misguided separation from the British Empire, but again Christmas is upon us without fanfare!”
“The Imperials had a few decorations up,” Kutas offered, a little lamely, “for their ‘Christmas Feast.’ ”
“Unacceptable! And of no use to you as an excuse. What’s the time?”
Kutas was increasingly flustered. Bradford’s stream of consciousness mode of communication was well- known, but it always caught his victims off guard. The Lemurians on the bridge were amused by the discussion, but, as Kutas had predicted, had little idea what it was about. The chronometer on the forward bulkhead was long deceased, and Kutas looked at his watch. “Uh, oh four forty-three,” he said.
“Close enough,” Bradford proclaimed, and passing a suddenly horrified Min-Saakir, or “Minnie” the female bridge talker, Courtney Bradford sounded the general alarm. Amid the raucous cries of a duck being burnt alive, he twisted the switch for the shipwide comm and spoke into the bulkhead microphone. “Merry Christmas, everyone,” he said in a kindly tone, reproduced as a snarling shout. “Yes indeed, it’s Christmas Day! Joy to you all!” He released the switch with a satisfied expression.
“God… dern it!” Kutas moaned. “Seventeen minutes early for morning GQ! The Skipper’s going to s me for your stunt!”
“Piffle!” Bradford said, suddenly a little hesitant. “What is seventeen minutes?”
“It’s a quarter hour for tired destroyermen, Mr. Bradford!”
The ship quickly came to life on the black sea, under the purple-smeared sky. Fire controlmen scampered up the steel rungs to the platform above, and drowsy lookouts joined those on the bridgewings, who’d remain at their posts until the sun was fully up. They were no longer cramped by the torpedo directors that hadn’t pointlessly made the trip. Dark shapes shuffled quickly to their posts on the fo’c’sle below, on the number one gun, and Earl Lanier’s distinctive bellow came from the galley just aft, demanding that the men and ’Cats “line up, straight and smart, and wait your goddamn turn! No, it ain’t ready yet; you got a date?” A few minutes later, taking longer than usual, Captain Reddy trotted up the metal stairs behind them, looking at his watch.
“Caap’n on the bridge!” Staas-Fin (Finny) cried loudly.
“As you were,” Matt said. “Report, Mr. Kutas.”
“Fire control, engineering, an’ lookout stations manned an’ ready, Mr. Kutaas,” shouted Minnie, her voice high-pitched and soft as usual, but touched with a note of anxiety.
“Uh, calm seas, northwesterly winds, no casualties or contacts, Captain,” Kutas said.
“All guns manned and ready,” Minnie squeaked.
Matt looked around, nodding at Courtney where he stood somewhat defiantly near the captain’s chair. “Merry Christmas, all,” he said amiably, then glanced at his watch again. “Thing seems a little off today.”
“I ah, doubt it, Skipper,” Norm said with another gruesome grimace. Chief Gray and Commodore Harvey Jenks appeared on the bridge together, followed quickly by Carl Bashear and Sonny Campeti, both comparing watches.
“All stations report ‘manned and ready,’” Minnie said, looking at the captain. He’d obviously figured out what happened and turned his gaze to Courtney.
