"Eat dinosaurs? My God. The man's talking about eating dinosaurs!" the Australian muttered to himself.
Matt returned to Letts. "Fresh water?"
Walker's boilers were an open feed-water design, so they used seawater for steam, but the crew needed fresh water for cooking and drinking. The storage tanks were small and, even in normal times, bathing was a luxury. The men often lined up naked by the rail for a good spray-down with the fire hose. The salt water drove them nuts when it dried and caused rashes and other discomforts, but it was refreshing.
"Water's a problem," admitted Letts. "With the condensers in the shape they are, we have about a month's worth, at current usage."
"Okay. So we need fuel, ammo, food, water." The captain arched an eyebrow at Gray. "And paint." There were more chuckles despite the fact that no one knew where to find any of those things. "What else?"
"About a million things, Skipper," Letts replied, "but those are the most immediate. I'm sure Lieutenant McFarlane could add quite a list of spares, but—"
"Right. Make a list of everything we need, but more importantly, figure out how we're going to get it. Use anybody you need, but find answers." Matt swiveled in his chair to look at Courtney Bradford. "Would you mind being conscripted?"
The Australian took his pipe from his mouth and his eyes widened with pleasure. "Delighted, Captain! Delighted. How can I assist?"
"Work with Letts to sort this out. You'll be his special assistant. I know this isn't the same world you were such a student of, but you must have a better idea where we can find supplies than any of us do. Agreed?"
"Absolutely, Captain Reddy. I'll do my best!"
"Of course you will."
Matt glanced at Sandra when he said it, and saw the twinkle of amusement in her eyes. He smiled at her. He was pleased. All in all, the discussion had gone fairly well. His people were engaged, and actively working to solve problems. Morale was better than he would have expected, and the crushing terror of their situation was kept at bay—for now—by a veneer of normalcy. The tasks were unusual, but the familiarity of doing them within the extended family that was the crew of USS Walker was reassuring.
Throughout the conversation, Lieutenant Shinya was silent. After the initial hostility, he seemed to have been forgotten, and he just listened. He was amazed by the familiarity with which the Americans talked and worked together. No one was afraid to speak, not even the most junior person present. It seemed chaotic compared to his more-regimented experience, but it also appeared effective. There was no hiding the fact that they were in a predicament, but there was no hesitation to mention failings that might reflect poorly on any department. That made it easier for the captain to assess the situation. He doubted a similar meeting aboard his own ship would have progressed as well, and he felt strangely refreshed.
Just then, Juan entered the compartment with his carafe and began filling cups. He paused by Tamatsu. His face bore a look of anguished loathing, and Shinya was reminded that, no matter what, he was still considered an enemy. Juan took a deep breath and started to tilt the carafe. It began to shake. Suddenly he slammed it on the table as if the handle was too hot to hold. He looked at Matt in horror.
"I—I am sorry, Cap-tan Reddy," he whispered. "I cannot." He then drew himself up and strode through the curtain into the passageway. Everyone watched him go, except Tamatsu, who continued to stare straight ahead, but his gaze seemed somewhat lower. Matt sighed. Nothing was going to be easy.
Walker steamed leisurely in a west-northwesterly direction for the remainder of the day, back across the Flores Sea into the Java Sea once more. The sea picked up toward evening, and a gloomy overcast obscured the growing moon. Matt ordered the running lights lit—unthinkable just days before—and stationed men on the two searchlights. They were to sweep the horizon at ten-minute intervals, both to show the lights and to see what they could. The ship began to roll as the swell increased just enough to remind everyone that regardless of war, dinosaurs, sea monsters, or even strange beings on giant ships, ultimately, Walker's greatest adversary was the very element for which she was made.
By 2200 that night, halfway through the first watch, she began to pitch as the sea ran higher. Matt was dead to the world, on the bunk in his small stateroom. Walker's antics didn't disturb him in the least; he was used to them, and after everything else, the normal, unpleasant motion of the ship was even soothing in a way. When he finally surrendered completely to sleep, in his cabin for the first time in days, he found a depth of untroubled slumber that even the ghosts couldn't sound. So when they hit the fish and he was nearly thrown to the deck, it almost didn't wake him.
The small light over his desk was still vibrating when he looked at it, confused. The speaker above his pillow squawked in Lieutenant Garrett's urgent voice. "Captain! Captain to the bridge, sir. Please." He coughed and cleared his throat, then pushed the comm button. "On my way." He slung his legs over the side of the rack and yanked on his trousers and shoes. Pulling on his shirt and plopping his hat on his head, he hurried down the short corridor to the companionway and scrambled up the ladder. In the shelter by the radio shack, he finished buttoning his shirt and mounted the stairway to the pilothouse. The blowers had abated, and the way the ship rolled even more sickeningly told him the engines had stopped.
"Report!" he demanded. Garrett stood on the starboard bridgewing staring down at the water. The wind had picked up and he'd been drenched by spray. He turned. "Sorry to wake you, sir, but we hit a whale, or fish— or something. It looks like the one that ate the Japs. Down here, sir." He pointed and Matt peered over the rail. The searchlight above them couldn't depress far enough to directly illuminate the creature, but the diffused light was sufficient for him to see it clearly.
Walker broached to in the moderate swell when the engines stopped, and the giant "fish" wallowed and bumped against the hull in her lee. Garrett was right. It looked like the one they'd seen previously, although not as large. Every now and then, the waves caused its great head to rise, and the long, slack jaws were frighteningly clear. A large black eye the size of a trash-can lid stared sightlessly up at them. The cause of death was a huge gash behind its head, and the water was tinged black with blood as it washed from the wound. Sandra Tucker, her hair disheveled, appeared beside him, rubbing her eyes.
"It's horrible," she said. Excited voices came from the main deck below as destroyermen gathered to gawk. Bradford joined them and his voice rose above the others.
"Amazing! We simply must keep it! You there! Find something to tie onto it!" Matt heard one of his crew shout, "Bugger off, mate!" in a fair copy of the Australian's accent.
"Damage?" he asked.
"A lot of broken coffee cups," Garrett answered nervously. "That's all I know so far. The exec took Bosun's Mate Bashear to have a look. Lieutenant McFarlane and the Bosun said they'd meet them there."
The comm on the bulkhead whistled and Matt picked it up himself. "Bridge," he said. "Captain speaking."
"McFarlane here, Skipper. There's a little water coming in on the starboard side around frame number six. Nothing serious . . . just another seam." Spanky's voice was thick. He too had finally been asleep.
"Good. Can the current watch handle it?"
There was a pause before Spanky's voice returned. "Yes, sir. I think so."