"Nav, course to deep water?"
Fagan promptly replied, "COB has him now, looking for a poopie-suit. Nav recommends course zero-one-zero. Fifty fathom curve in thirty miles. Twenty fathom curve in twenty-five. Recommend ahead one-third. Visibility down to one hundred yards."
The little perahu pinisi was left to drift ashore in a few days, one more mystery of the Java Sea.
The rain quickly grew from a gentle shower to a torrential downpour. The drops were hitting so hard that any exposed skin stung painfully. Hunter and Miller gave up all pretense of trying to look out ahead. The driving rain made that impossible. They tried to find a little shelter below the cockpit coaming.
Hunter grabbed the 7MC microphone. "Chief of the Watch, get two pairs of arctic goggles up here quick. Quartermaster, you'll have to keep a good look-out through the scope."
"Captain, Navigator." The tinny speaker was barely audible above the hammering of the driving rain. "Recommend making bare steerageway until this clears. Petty Officer Buell reports visibility down to twenty-five yards. We won't be able to see anything in enough time to avoid it."
Jacobs gave Hunter the "by the book" answer. Maritime law requires bare steerageway when visibility is nil to reduce the risk of running into something or someone. Hunter understood that it was the Nav's job to give him the "by the book" recommendation.
Hunter listened to the recommendation and hesitated the barest instant. "Nav, log your recommendation. All ahead full. Where are those goggles?"
There were times when the book just didn't work. There was no telling when the rain would clear. It might be ten minutes, it might be after daybreak. Then they would be stuck twenty-five miles from the nearest water deep enough to hide in. Ordering Jacobs to log his recommendation would prove that Jacobs had done his job if they hit anything. The responsibility rested solely with Hunter.
The tiny speaker squawked, "Nav, aye. Goggles on the way up. Answering ahead full."
The fur lined arctic goggles looked incongruous when they were barely four hundred miles South of the equator, but they protected Hunter's and Miller's eyes from the driving rain. Hunter peered out over the top of the sail, willing himself to see anything out there. He could barely make out the white curling wave that washed halfway up the side of the sail before collapsing on its self. SAN FRANCISCO,s eighteen knots, added to the twenty knot wind, drove the rain until it felt like gravel thrown against their flesh.
Miller took station on the port side of the tiny cockpit and stared ahead. He yelled above the wind, "Skipper, I can't see shit. How about you."
Hunter yelled back, "About the same. Keep looking."
A white blur flashed toward them and slammed into the sail just forward of Miller. They were both splattered with feathers and blood, which the driving rain washed away. Hunter shouted, "Seagull. He couldn't see either."
They charged through the blinding storm with the wind howling in their ears. Hunter prayed that no fisherman was desperate enough to challenge this storm or any tramp steamer was trying to make way up the coast.
Finally the tinny speaker squawked, "Captain, Navigator. Twenty fathoms under the keel and dropping fast. Recommend we dive now."
Hunter yelled into the microphone, "Ahead one-third. Nav, take the conn. Weps and I will rig the bridge for dive. Have personnel stand by in the trunk to hand down gear."
18 Jun 2000, 0445LT (17 Jun, 2145Z)
SAN FRANCISCO slid silently beneath the waves and dove into the depths. The wild driving rainstorm was forgotten, three hundred feet above them.
Hunter walked forward to meet their guest. His shoes squished wetly, leaving puddles on the tile. He reached into his stateroom and grabbed a towel. Vigorously drying his hair, he walked on down the passageway to the XO's stateroom.
Sniffing the air as he walked, Hunter smelled the acrid odor of cigarette smoke. Stepping into the XO's stateroom, he found Turnstill leaning back in Fagan's chair, his feet propped up on the desk. He was nursing a cup of coffee and a cigarette. Turnstill was dressed in a dry poopie suit. His tousled reddish hair, ruddy complexion, and grey-blue eyes gave him a devil-may-care air.
Hunter snapped, "Please put that out. Smoking is not allowed here."
Turnstill slowly dropped his feet to the floor and slipped the cigarette butt into the remains of the coffee. "Sorry, Skipper. Didn't know the rules. Glad you happened along when you did. Didn't relish going back to the island. Landlord was getting upset. When he finds out his daughter’s in the family way, my welcome is shot."
Hunter exasperation boiled over. Risking his ship and the mission for this low life was too much to bear. He answered back sharply, "You had better have something useful for us. If we pulled you out just to avoid an irate father, I'll have your ass nailed to a mast!"
Turnstill raised both hands in surrender. "Captain you have no idea how upset one of these Muslim fathers can get. It could mean my head! But I do have a little information for you. I have worked for Suluvana. I know about Nusa Funata."
Hunter pulled up a chair and sat. "All right start talking. You have my attention."
Turnstill leaned back again and began to talk. "Captain, for some reason, I get the feeling we started out on the wrong foot. Let's start over."
Hunter answered drily, "That depends on what you have to say. Tell me what you know
