that mountain fish?” The new shells worked much better than they’d expected, almost perfectly tuned to the gun director-as a distant mountain fish discovered to its mortal confusion under the light of a bright, clear moon. The trajectories were good and consistent and the tracers worked-even if the color was a little off. The explosive force was better as well, even though the bursting charge was the same. They were simply better projectiles in all respects than anything they’d had since they ran out of those they’d brought to this world.
“No,” Matt confirmed. “If those things keep their distance, we’ll leave ’em alone.” He took a deep breath. “No sense wasting ammunition we might need very badly soon.”
Spanky climbed the skeletal iron stairs to the upper-level catwalk in the aft fireroom. Heat shimmered off the top of the massive, roaring number three boiler. It was absolute hell here in the highest reaches of the fireroom where, contrary to physics, the heat seemed almost to compress itself into a physical, oppressive presence. He wore a bandanna over his mouth and nose to protect him from the ’Cat fuzz that hung in the space like a fog, but it was already soaked with sweat and plastered to his face. His eyes watered, and seemed to float in little pools of salty, caustic acid.
“There you are!” he hollered over the thundering boiler and the blower that forced air into the contained inferno. Tabby shot a grinning, sopping glance at him before returning her attention to a pair of ’Cats wielding a massive wrench.
“Hi, Spaanky,” she shouted over her shoulder, intent on the work she was supervising.
“Damn, it’s hot!” Spanky said, joining her.
“You get soft running around in cool air topside,” she accused.
“Yeah, maybe. It was nice being off the equator for a while.”
“We head north soon, right?”
“We already have. We’re in the Fil-pin Sea, but we had to stay south of the Carolines until we cleared ’em. Too many uncharted knobs in there to run into in the dark. It should cool off tonight, and we’ll be off Samaar tomorrow.”
“Gettin’ close. We kill them damn Jaaps, we go in dry dock?”
“That’s the plan.”
Tabby wiped the foamy sweat matting the fur above her eyes and slung it at the boiler. “Thank the Maker. I don’t know how long we keep steaming on this bitch.”
“Another leak?”
“Not real leak,” she assured him. “Just hot foggy round this coupling.” She shook her head. “Mr. Letts’s gasket stuff is swell, but it seems to be going all at once. Like it gets saturated an’ steam just kinda smokes out, see? We ain’t had no failures, but we gotta tighten couplings all the time.”
“I bet it’s the heat,” Spanky said, and Tabby nodded.
“Me too. Meantime, I gotta watch these dopes, make sure they don’t spin a bolt or nut off the flange. I think we get a big failure then.”
“Yeah. Hey, be careful, wilya?”
Tabby sent him another damp, tired smile. “Don’t worry. We keep number three goin’-at least till after the fight!”
“Yeah. But you be careful! You and the rest of your snipes. If you get cooked down here, who am I gonna replace you with?” He chuckled. “I’ll have to come back down here myself!”
“No worry, Mr. Spaanky! I keep you safe in cool air!”
Spanky left them with it, tapping gauges as he went. He stood with a water tender for a moment, eyeing the water level in the feedwater line. All the pumps, feedwater, fuel, everything, were starting to gasp, and no wonder. The ship had steamed halfway around the damn world, fought several battles, and then steamed back. He didn’t want to think about how many hours of continuous steaming each boiler had racked up. He sighed and cycled through the air lock into the forward engine room.
“Howdy, fellas,” he said to the throttlemen, even though half were female and a couple of those were human women. He tried not to notice the way their sweaty T-shirts clung to them.
“We’re goin’ in the yard when we get to the Philippines, right?” asked Johnny Parks. The kid had been a fireman’s apprentice on Mahan, and now he was a machinist’s mate (engine). He seemed like a good kid, but he was just now catching up with some of the ’Cats.
“Right.”
“Good. The lube oil in the reduction gears is getting mighty thin.”
“I know, and we can’t change it out underway. Should’ve done it at Respite.”
“Yes, sir… but we changed it at Scapa Flow twice, coming and going, and, well, we’re out.”
Spanky scratched his chin under his whiskers. “Yeah. Right. I saw that in the division report.” He shook his head. “The old girl’s just about as beat up as she was when Amagi sank her. I’m starting to lose track of it all-and now I’ve got more than just engineering to worry about.” He forced a grin and slapped Johnny on the shoulder. “It’ll be okay. Plenty of lube oil waiting for us at Manila!”
He moved aft, past the giant turbine that dominated the space and paused by the reduction gear housing. He frowned. He’d never wanted to be exec. As engineering officer he’d had enough problems and responsibilities to deal with within his complicated but limited domain. Now he had to worry about the whole ship-and he still didn’t have half the worries the Skipper had. He didn’t regret keeping Captain Reddy in the dark about recent developments. What could he have done? But he finally understood why he’d been so mad. There was nothing he could do about the lube-oil shortage or the failing gaskets in the firerooms, but he needed to know about them. He suddenly remembered a heated lecture he’d given Tabby once, when she’d torn down a boiler without telling him. He’d told her she’d been wrong not to keep him fully informed because the Captain was basing his plans on what he thought his ship could do. Maybe this was different, and he honestly couldn’t think of anything the Skipper could have done if he’d known immediately what was happening, but he and Gray had been wrong not to tell him.
“The ship’s a wreck,” he admitted aloud to himself, “and the Skipper damn sure needs to know that before we tangle with that Jap tin can!”
CHAPTER 19
March 17, 1944
Scapa Flow, New Scotland
Empire of the New Britain Isles
Mrs. Carr quietly brought a pot of tea into the Imperial Library in Government House and set it near the sunken-eyed girl sitting on the leather-padded chair behind the broad, cluttered desk. It was her father’s desk, and the disheveled stacks of papers, books, and odd contraptions sprawled across it, just as he’d left them, seemed to represent him in the room. Princess Rebecca Anne McDonald stirred herself to nod slightly in thanks. With a dreadful sigh and what might have been a disapproving glare at Courtney Bradford, Mrs. Carr left the room. Courtney sat across the desk, leaning forward, yearning to enfold the girl in a comforting, supportive embrace, but the young princess had forbidden it and Courtney knew why. Possibly endless tears lurked behind those tortured eyes, and they couldn’t be released, not yet, lest they quench the white-hot steel that burned in the girl’s soul. He’d said everything he could possibly say, and she knew of the protective support, even love, he felt for her, but things-momentous things-had to be attended to, and she could not let anything interfere with that just yet. Even grief.
Mechanically, Rebecca poured a cup of tea for Courtney and another for herself; then they continued to wait. The odd, colorful, furry reptile named Petey remained drooped across the back of Rebecca’s neck like a fat little stole. He hadn’t even stirred except to cut an eye in Mrs. Carr’s direction when she came and went. Perhaps he sensed something of his master’s mood, because he definitely knew Mrs. Carr was the primary source of food in the house, and normally, he would have begun yapping “Eat! Eat!” at the first sight of her.
There came a soft knock at the door and the Imperial Factor, Sean Bates, stepped into the room, accompanied by the blond-furred Lemurian Lieutenant Ruik-Sor-Raa. Bates’s expression was little different from Rebecca’s, and Ruik was blinking rapidly in condolence. Beyond the door, before it closed, a glimpse of the hallway
