"Juan says the rest of them apples are for the officers," said Ray Mertz, the mess attendant.
"Well, who's in charge here, Earl? You or Juan?" demanded Dennis as it came his turn and he filled his cup.
"I am, damn you. But Juan got them apples hisself for the officers' mess. You're just lucky he shared some out."
"Officers," grunted Stites, as if the word was a self-explanatory curse. Silva nodded, as he was expected to, but without much conviction. He normally didn't have much use for officers either, but he figured they could've done worse under the circumstances. Their officers sure had their work cut out for them. All their lives were in the officers' hands and he didn't envy them the responsibility.
"Still got some pickles left," offered Mertz. Dennis started to refuse, but then reconsidered. If things were as bad as he suspected, there was no telling when he'd taste a pickle again. Much less an apple. There might come a day when he'd dream about that last pickle he'd turned down.
"Sure, Ray. Gimme one."
Felts jabbed Laney with his elbow and motioned around the corner of the galley at a figure by the starboard rail, staring at the heaving sea. "Hey, snipe, lookie there," he said in a grim tone. "That's that Nip officer! What the hell's he doin' on the loose?" Laney's eyes widened.
"I'll be damned! You 'apes sure ain't particular about the company you keep!" Angry faces turned to the machinist's mate, but they looked guiltily uncertain that he might be right.
"Yeah, what's up, Silva?" demanded Stites. "You're tight with the Chief.
What's he think about lettin' Nips run all over the ship? I think we ought'a pitch the bastard over the side."
Silva munched his pickle and looked from one to the other. "Gray don't like it, and I don't either, but leave him be. Captain's orders. He's on parole, or somethin'." He shook his head. "Whatever the hell that means. I don't reckon them Jap bastards paroled them boys on Wake." They were silent a moment, watching the shape as it left the rail and disappeared down the companionway. " 'Sides," Silva added gruffly, "he's prob'ly the only fella in the whole wide world lonesomer than we are right now."
Spanky sat hunched in his favorite chair near the throttle-control station, his second-favorite mug clutched tightly in both hands between his knees. It was a big ceramic mug that held twice as much coffee as was generally considered right. On one side was a stylized view of Oahu from the air, and on the other was a raised-relief sculpture of a virtually nude hula girl reclined provocatively on a Chevrolet emblem. His very favorite mug with the totally nude pair of hula girls had been destroyed, and he wasn't going let anything happen to this one. He raised it carefully to his lips and took a sip as he listened to the sounds of the ship laboring in the moderate seas.
Over the years, he'd grown used to the noises she made and prided himself on his ability to diagnose problems just by sound or "feel." After all the damage and repairs she'd undergone, Walker moaned with all sorts of new sounds and resonated with many feels he wasn't accustomed to, and he felt disoriented as he tried to identify and categorize them all. He shuddered to think of the stopgaps and jury-rigged repairs he'd performed, and he was secretly amazed that the ship was still afloat, much less under way. He grimaced at the thought of how they might have to stay that way. Wood in the boilers! That would finish them off. The thing was, if they were down to burning wood, that meant they had nothing else, so with a bleak but philosophical grunt, he resigned himself to the possibility.
He was supposed to sleep. The captain had actually ordered him to, but he couldn't escape the premonition that something would come disastrously unwrapped as soon as he did. Besides, while he worked he didn't have to think about the dark, looming scope of their situation. It was finally starting to hit the crew. There were several guys hanging out near the throttle station now, talking about just that. He listened only halfway, but for the first time really, he noticed an edge of fear.
He rubbed his tired eyes and looked up to see two pale faces peering at him from the gloom. He was a little startled, since he hadn't known the Mice were there. As usual, they ignored the conversation flowing around them. He sighed.
"What are you doing up? This ain't your watch. Get some sleep."
Gilbert blinked at him and looked around the compartment. The other men were arguing about the creatures on the big ship again. His gaze returned to Spanky.
"We seen a dinosaur before," he said in a conspiratorial voice. "Me and Isak. We seen one in New York, in a big museum, on liberty a few years back."
McFarlane's eyebrows rose at the non sequitur. "That so?" he managed.
Isak nodded grimly. "God's truth. 'Course they was all bones. There was more than one, but one looked sorta like those we saw on Bali the other day, only the one in New York was bigger." They paused and looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to comment. He just stared, baffled by their train of thought. Gilbert got impatient and spoke again. "Oil's made out of dinosaurs, they say. A long time ago a bunch of dinosaurs died and took to festerin', just like a dead cow, and all that old black ooze seeped into the ground and turned into oil. 'Least, that's what they say."
"Stands to reason," said Isak. "If oil ain't made out'a dinosaurs, why would Sinclair have one on their sign?" He paused thoughtfully. "Which them little dinosaurs on Bali looked a lot like the one on the Sinclair sign, 'cept they weren't green."
McFarlane's eyebrows had risen as far as they could go. He was way too tired for this. "Boys," he began, but Gilbert actually interrupted him.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but that got us thinkin'. We was both wildcatters when we was kids. Oklahoma, Texas, Colorado, Wyoming . . . We brought in a lot of wells before we got in the Navy."
"We didn't like it, though, neither of us. Too much damn sun and dust—and heat too, but heat ain't all that bad. That's why we got in the Navy, though," put in Isak, and what passed for a tentative smile crossed his face. "We know a thing or two about heavy machinery, but we like burnin' oil better'n findin' it."
Gilbert looked at his partner with an air of bitter resignation, but nodded agreement. "We got to thinkin'. If things is like they say, then if we're gonna keep our boilers fed with oil, I guess we'll have to drill for it." Gilbert took a breath. "We know how, and if that's what it takes, well . . . we know how."
Spanky looked at them with surprise and then slowly nodded. "Thanks, boys. I'll remember that."
Matt and Sandra dried their hair with towels from the officers' head. Matt's hair took only an instant, short as it was, and he watched Sandra, drying and brushing her long, almost-brass-colored strands. He'd known she was attractive, but at that moment, arms over her head, wet blouse tout against her bosom, she was the prettiest woman he'd ever seen and he resisted an electric urge to take the brush himself. Suddenly he realized she'd caught him staring and his ears burned. The expression on her face was . . . what? Fortunately, just then Bradford swept into the wardroom. He was still excited about what they'd seen.
"Amazing! Such jaws! I'm certain you're thankful we didn't hit the larger one, Captain Reddy! Of course you are!"
"I think we should all be thankful for that, Mr. Bradford," Matt replied, both grateful and resentful of the intrusion.
Bradford looked quizzically from one to the other, for the first time sensing tension between them, and attempted to quell his enthusiasm. "Quite so. Forgive me. I do get carried away. I've not forgotten the seriousness of the situation. In fact, it's been foremost on my mind. I've done a bit of preliminary research—oh, for my office library!—and I may have a few helpful suggestions for your Mr. Letts tomorrow."