He did like being COFO, he realized. He liked his pilots and he liked ’Cats in general. He’d always liked cousin Matt, even when he treated him like a kid-when he was a kid. He even liked most of the officers he’d met attached to the task force-except Colonel Shinya. He respected Shinya and believed he knew his stuff, and he knew Matt trusted the guy, but he was a Jap, damn it! He just couldn’t get over that yet. All in all, though, he guessed he could have wound up in a lot worse situation. He stretched.
“Hey, Commaander,” came the muffled voice from behind, “look tree o’clock down, mebbe six miles. There some mountain fishes down there.”
Orrin looked. Sure enough. Damn, those things are big! At five thousand feet and several miles, they looked like whales a few hundred yards off, cruising slowly, their massive flukes never breaking the surface. The bow wave they pushed in front of what he’d been told were kind of their foreheads looked like breakers on a distant beach.
“We go mess with them?”
Orrin chuckled to himself, but spoke sternly. “No, not this time.” On occasion, they used the mighty beasts like practice targets, but Admiral Lelaa had forbidden actually dropping anything directly on them. They’d already discovered they could kind of herd the massive creatures by dropping bombs around them, and they’d done it a couple of times to clear the dangerous things out of the task force’s path, but so far, for some reason, mountain fish in this region seemed totally disinterested in ships-or anything much but bombs-that might divert them from whatever destination they had in mind. Generally, they took a “leave them alone as long as they leave us alone” approach out here.
“But we got two practice bombs,” Seepy reminded. They also carried a crate of live, hand-droppable mortar bombs aboard. That was SOP now, but Seepy didn’t mention those.
“I know, and we’ll use them when we get back on one of the towed targets. Even when we miss, the guys watching will get more out of it than if we use ’em out here where no one can see.” Orrin shook his head. “We’re not going to pester the big fellas today!” He paused, glancing at the little mirror that showed him the fuel gauge bobbing in the tank, then looked at the bulky, windup clock embedded in the instrument panel. Watches were scarce these days-he sure didn’t have one-but it was essential for flight leaders, at least, to keep track of the time.
“About thirteen thirty. Time to head back,” he shouted. He’d been keeping an eye out for their replacements for a while. Sometimes the guys liked to “bounce” each other, like real pursuit pilots, and trying to get the “old man” added extra spice to the game. He didn’t discourage it, as long as things didn’t get out of hand. Nobody wanted to end up in the drink! But he also knew the Grik had aircraft now, and it was probably only a matter of time before the Doms did too. They already had their pet flying lizards. They’d been promised new planes with better performance, as soon as Colonel Mallory got the new radials on line. For some reason, nobody seemed to doubt he would. Then they needed rubber for tires, which was supposed to be coming out of Ceylon and India soon. It was widely rumored the new ships would not be floatplanes, though, and Orrin had mixed feelings about that. He loved the idea of the performance upgrade, but also liked something that would float if he was ever forced down on the scary sea.
USS Maaka-Kakja (CV-4)
Admiral Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan paced the bridge of her mighty ship with undiminished pleasure, despite the presence of her scruffy, greasy chief engineer, who dogged her every step. She knew what mice were; there were similar, if not identical, creatures on her world, and she had to admit that Gilbert Yeager, one of the original fireroom “Mice” aboard USS Walker, certainly reminded her of one, even if he was taller than she was. As much as he physically resembled a mouse, she’d heard that he’d once been just as quiet. No longer. Now he never hesitated to bring his daily reports straight to her, and if those reports sounded more like the nasal, squeaky whining of an angry mouse, she had only herself to blame. She’d encouraged it.
“… an’ after I tole ’em to fix it, they just oogled at me an’ asked me how!” Gilbert ranted. “How many times I gotta show ’em how to do the same god d… gut-dumpin’… thang, again an’ again, afore they get wise?”
Until you learn to explain what you are doing and why, Lelaa thought.
“How we ever come this far without stallin’ out, sinkin’, ’er just rollin’ belly-up, is a myst’ry to me,” he droned on, “since mosta my division cain’t find their swishy tails with both hands, let alone figger out which end of a wrench ta’ grab!” He shook his head, then stared at the deck. “I’ll admit it. I’m tired, Skipper.”
“This entire crew is inexperienced, Chief Gilbert,” Lelaa replied pleasantly. “It is fortunate we have a core group such as yourself to help the others along.”
“Well, ain’t that my point? They ain’t gettin’ much along, even with all my helpin’!”
Lelaa didn’t know Isak and Tabby, the other “Mice,” but she knew that while Gilbert might be a font of engineering wisdom, the tap was perpetually closed to a trickle. Despite his newfound ability to communicate, he still couldn’t pass ideas and technical information very well. His division seemed eager enough to learn, as far as she could tell, but Gilbert was, frankly, a crummy teacher. Considering the situation threatened to suppress her fine mood. It was a serious issue. So far, most of Maaka-Kakja ’s machinery had functioned flawlessly. It was overengineered to a point of almost gross inefficiency, after all. But what if? They were steaming toward certain eventual combat, and they had little real notion of the Dom defenses or domestic capability. All they’d seen so far was what the Doms could do at the end of a very long rope-like they would soon be.
“Relaax, Mr. Yay-gar. Actually, you must relaax. You-how do you say? — own a plank of this ship, as do most aboard her, so I understand your concern. I will give this matter the thought it requires, I assure you. In the meantime, you do have some good people. Not all are as green as you say. Make use of them.”
Gilbert shrugged. “Well, maybe they ain’t all useless, but them who ain’t are as wore down as me. Some folks just don’t get it that this gal has the biggest… dern… power plant we’ve ever thowed together, an’ there ain’t nothin’ light down there. Stuff one fella could do on my ol’ Walker takes a dozen fellas aboard here…” He stopped and blinked. “Which that don’t compare, ’cause she has turbines an’ we got these jug jumpers…”
“I believe I know what you mean,” Lelaa said.
“Well, maybe you do, but it boils down to as wore out as I am… I’m just as tired o’ worryin’. I don’t want none o’ my fellas gettin’ hurt. See? It’s like a Chinese fire drill down there half the time.”
Lelaa didn’t know what that was, but his other words reinforced her belief that his primary concern was for his division and the ship. That spoke well for the very strange man.
She cast her eyes over the surrounding seascape and the, to her, unprecedented numbers and power of her element of Second Fleet. Besides Maaka-Kakja, there were steam-powered and fast-sailing oilers, tenders, colliers, and transports. All of the newer Company steamers had been seized or requisitioned as troopers, and if they were the slowest ships in the task force and set its pace, they could at least be counted on to manage the same creeping station every day. Another task force, built around the even slower, heavy, Imperial ships of the line, or liners, would be along later. Around and among all those ships present were dozens of Lemurian-American and Imperial DDs, and nearly everything out there was driven by steam. There were the usual mechanical casualties, but there were a lot of competent engineers in the fleet. Maybe she could borrow a few to give Gilbert a hand-if only to interpret his grunts and disapproving stares for his snipes. One thing was sure: Gilbert couldn’t keep Maaka-Kakja running essentially by himself forever. He was wearing out. Lelaa suddenly wondered how he would take it if she brought in some professional help. Mice could be sensitive creatures.
“Then maybe you need a larger division as badly as experience.”
“If they could stay outta each other’s way… that might help. Manilly Bupers seems ta’ think this tub didn’t need any bigger black gang than a harbor tug.” Lelaa saw he was studying the vast fleet surrounding them now. He stuck his hands in his pockets, then jerked them out. “Could maybe… a bigger, more experienced division happen?” he asked hesitantly, and Lelaa blinked amusement.
“I am sure we can work something out.”
After Gilbert left the bridge, Tex Sheider approached her, grinning. He’d been S-19’s radioman, but, like all of them, his capacities had expanded amazingly. Not only was he one of Lelaa’s best friends, but he was also her exec.
“Getting that squirrel to ask for the dose you wanted to make him take is one of the slickest things I ever saw!” he laughed.
“He may be a ‘squirrel,’ but he is a good man. It was only a matter of discovering what he really needed, so I could help him know.”
“Figuring out anything bobbing around in that weird little head is bound to be a miracle. Spanky said it can’t
