«Sometime this afternoon, I think,» Rick replied to his sailing master’s question. «We’re farther north than they probably expect us, but not close enough to Singapore for Mallory to worry about being seen.»
«Will the plane try to find us if there is a storm?» Kas asked, nodding toward the horizon. Rick had been watching the growing clouds since dawn.
«You’ve got me there. If it gets bad, no.» Rick snorted. «If it was me, I wouldn’t let them fly the only bloody airplane in the world if the wind was over five miles an hour.» He glanced at his second in command and then pointed at the sky. «Do you think it’ll get bad?»
Kas cocked his head to one side and blinked. «It is difficult to say. Possibly. This is the stormy time of year.»
«So everyone keeps saying,» grumbled Rick.
A silence stretched between them, but it was broken by a high-pitched cry from the maintop. «Deck there! Sail!»
Rick snatched a speaking trumpet. «Where away?»
There was a short pause while the lookaboring. «Two points the left. the port bow!»
Rick scrambled into the port main shrouds and secured himself as best he could. Then he raised his binoculars. Yes! There she was, running toward them under all plain sail. Probably trying to escape the storm building behind them, Rick mused. «Shake that reef out of the fore-tops’l!» he shouted. «We’ll wait till they get closer. Act like we’re turning to run, too. We’ll rake him as we turn!»
He beamed down at Kas-Ra-Ar. «One way or another, it’s going to be an interesting day!»
«Captain, the launch is alongside.»
Matt nodded. «Single up all lines and prepare to cast off.»
The rain was falling in sheets now, and he could barely see past the fo’c’sle. He was accustomed to the dense squalls of the region, but this was different. He could feel the power behind the thing. He wondered fleetingly if this would be the event that snatched them back where they belonged? For some reason, in spite of everything, he caught himself hoping it wasn’t. Jim was right. Back home, Walker was just another over-age ’can. If they didn’t break her up and scatter her crew through the fleet, she’d probably spend the war towing targets for newer, more capable ships to practice against. Here, she and her people could make a difference. They had already begun.
«The work detail is back aboard and the launch is hooking on,» Dowden reported as he entered the pilothouse. Water coursed down his saturated clothes and drained away through the strakes at his feet. The work detail had been winching the screw onto shore, raft and all, so that working against the dock wouldn’t damage it.
The talker spoke again. «Radio says Lieutenant Mallory’s about to turn north, but it’s getting pretty boogery up there — his words — and he wants to know if you still want him to rendezvous with Revenge.»
«No sense. He can’t set down even if he spots her. Tell him to make for Baalkpan. Fly around the storm if he can — he should have plenty of fuel.»
The attention of the bridge watch was diverted by another figure entering the pilothouse. It was Keje. He must have come over on the launch that delivered Courtney Bradford, Sandra Tucker, and a few others to Big Sal. Matt sent them with the explanation that it wasn’t wise to keep all their eggs in one basket. Also, since they weren’t critical to the operation of the ship, it made no sense for them to endure a major storm aboard Walker—given her less than sedate performance in heavy seas. It would result only in unnecessary suffering. Bradford went with an appreciative smile, but Sandra had been reluctant. Matt finally traded heavily on her professional concern for the wounded that remained on Big Sal. Most had been shipped home on Fristar, but not all. As to her suspicious concern regarding his own injuries, he blithely reassured her that he’d take it easy.
«Good afternoon, Cap-i-taan Reddy.»
«Hello, Keje. I’m glad to see you, but we’re about to cast off. It looks like we’re going to have some of that ‘stormy’ weather you talked about.»
Keje nodded agreement as he wrung water from his fur. «Indeed. Quite stormy.»
«Well.» Matt paused, unsure how to continue. «Shouldn’t you be with your ship?»
«Unnecessary. Both her feet are out,» he said, referring to the gi
Matt looked at his friend for a moment, expressionless. «That’s fine, Keje,» he said at last. «Glad to have you. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that word, though. What’s a Strakka?»
Keje waved his hand. «I don’t know if there is a proper word to describe Strakka in Amer-i-caan. The closest I can think of might be. typhoon? Is that it?»
«You know what a typhoon is?» Matt asked with surprise. «Those are storms we only used to get in deeper waters than the Java Sea.»
«Yes. Mr. Bradford described the typhoon very well. It did sound like a Strakka, but on a different scale.»
Matt smiled. «Yeah, a typhoon’s as bad as they come. But you’re in for a heck of a ride aboard Walker in any kind of storm!» There was knowing laughter in the pilothouse.
Keje looked at him and blinked. «No. You misunderstand. A typhoon is bad, but a Strakka.» He smiled tolerantly. «A Strakka can be much, much worse!»
The Mice had wedged themselves between the forward air lock of the aft fireroom and the access-hatch ladder. Nearby, clutching the grating as if the ship itself was trying to shake her loose, Tabby continued the dry retching that had wracked her small body since the storm began. Isak’s and Gilbert’s stoic expressions belied the real concern they felt for their furry companion. The monumental cacophony of sound was stunning even to them. The blowers howled as they sucked the sodden air, and the tired hull thundered and creaked as the relentless sea pounded against it. Condensed moisture rained from every surface to join the nauseating sewer that crashed and surged in the bilge as the ship heaved and pitched. The firemen on watch weren’t doing much either, just holding on as best they could and trying to supervise the gauges and fires.
«Reckon she’s gonna die?» Gilbert Yager asked, peering through the muck that streaked his face. As close as they were, he still had to shout for Isak Rueben to hear him. Even Tabby’s soggy tail lay still — he’d never seen that before. Her ordinarily fluffy light-gray fur was almost black, and plastered to her body like it had been slicked down with grease.
«Nah,» Isak Rueben reassured him after a judicious glance. «Poor critter’s just a little seasick, is all. Must be sorta’ embarrassin’ for her to be seasick after spendin’ her whole life at sea.» He was thoughtful. " ’Course, on them big ships o’ theirs, I don’t reckon it ever gets quite this frisky. Don’t carry on so. You’ll make her feel worse.»
Gilbert looked at the exhausted, wretched, oblivious form.
«Okay. She wouldn’t want us coddlin’ her.» He paused. «Damned if I ain’t feelin’ a little delicate myself,» he admitted, glancing around the dark, dank, rectangular compartment. He could certainly feel the violent motion of the ship, but the only visual evidence was the sloshing bilge and the way the condensation sometimes fell sideways. «Now I know how those idiots who go over Niagara Falls in a barrel feel.»