“You really going to give those… Lemur… ’Cats a shot at those ships?” Mack asked. Ben looked at him. “I meant every word.”
“You think they can handle it?”
“What do you think? Who flew that ungainly goose that brought you here from the Philippines?”
“It’s not the same.”
“Why not?” Ben took a breath and scratched his nose. “Look. I know you’re new here, but here’s the Word on Lemurians: it doesn’t matter what they look like, what color they are, or whether they’re guys or gals; they’re people just like you and me, and you’ll treat them that way.”
“I already got that word from Lieutenant Tucker-not that I needed it. It’s pretty obvious how things stand. Hell, there’re Japs on our side! That’s weirder than… anything else I’ve seen.”
Ben nodded sincere understanding, even though he still had only a vague idea what Mack and the other survivors of that hellish ship had been through. “Good. Just make sure you spread the word if more of your guys get here. This isn’t the States, with ‘colored’ drinking fountains, or India, China, or even the Philippines. ’Cats generally have a good sense of humor. You can razz ’em for being short, stripey, furry, or having tails, and they’ll throw it right back at you for being freakishly tall, ‘naked,’ ugly… or not having a tail, but it’s all in fun. Always. We’ve been through too much together as real, honest to God friends for any of that other crap to even much occur to anybody, them or us, and that’s the way it stays, clear?”
“Clear, Colonel.”
“Good.” Ben shrugged. “Besides, we still have the Grik, and plenty of ‘bad’ Japs to hate.”
Bernie Sandison and a winded Sergeant Dixon arrived. “I think the sergeant here will be a big help assembling these machines,” Bernie said distractedly. “He’s done it before, and knows a lot of the mistakes they made in the Philippines when the E models showed up.” He shook his head. “What a nightmare. No wonder the Air Corps got plastered! Even if they got on a Jap’s tail, the guns wouldn’t fire! The assembly instructions with the planes tell you how to put them together, but they don’t say squat about really making them work.”
“Then I’m very glad to see you, Sergeant Dixon,” Ben said, but he noticed Sandison was still bothered by something.
“Thank you, sir,” Dixon replied. “Glad to be here.”
Ben cocked his head. “What’s the matter, Bernie?” he asked.
“Well… it’s that damn Silva! He was supposed to be on the ‘Buzzard’ with these guys. I need him here! He’s the one who came with the idea for the breechloaders we’re working on. He’s just going to waste out there…”
“What happened to him? Comm said he got on the plane…”
“Silva?” Mack asked. “Big guy? Eye patch?”
Ben looked at him. “Yeah.”
Mack shook his head. “It was the damnedest thing. The guy’s nuts. We talked about it with this Dutch nun, and she just said, ‘He’s always doing stuff like that.’ Say, you know? She acted horrified when he did it. Called him all sorts of things! But later, she seemed to think it was funny!”
“What did he do?” Ben asked, rolling his eyes.
Mack started to answer, but Bernie interrupted him. Sergeant Dixon had already told him. “He got on the plane through the port hatch, covered in grease, visited for a few minutes, then squirted out the starboard hatch right into the water!”
“In the water? On purpose?”
“Yeah,” Mack confirmed. “What’s the deal with the water?”
“Don’t get in it,” Ben murmured thoughtfully. “Especially in the shallows-like anywhere in the Malay Barrier… Grease? What did he say?”
“He said a lot of things that didn’t make any sense to us,” Dixon admitted, “mostly to the nun. But he did say the grease was an ‘experiment’ some old, ah, Lemurian named Moe suggested. Said it was time he ‘give it a shot, since he had too many orders to follow at the same time.’ Does that make any sense?”
“I hope that grease saved Silva’s miserable hide,” Bernie said darkly, “so I can kill that maniac myself!”
“Now hold on, Bernie,” Ben said. “Maybe he had a reason.” Ben caught himself. He didn’t really know Silva very well. He was an odd duck, that was certain, but why was he defending him? He shook his head. “Hang him when he gets home. In the meantime, don’t worry about it. You’ll bust a seam. Besides, from what I’ve heard, he’s more aggravation than he’s worth.”
Mack gestured at the hangars. “How many planes are ready to fly?”
“None,” Ben confessed. “That’s another reason I’m glad you guys are here. We’ve been bolting them together and getting them in the dry, but all the technical stuff has had to wait.” He looked at Dixon. “You know how to hook all that up?”
“Sure.”
“Good. Figure out what you need, labor and toolwise, and have at it.” He looked at the man. “But take it easy, wilya?”
“Yes, sir.” Dixon paused. “What about the guns? Where are they, and do you want them in?”
“They’re in that big warehouse, and hell yes, I want them in. Just two per plane for starters, though. We’ve got more guns than we can use, but ‘they’re’ thinking about sticking a gun in the nose of some of the ‘Nancys’-our single engine jobs-so we need to save back as many as we can. There might be a Jap plane out there somewhere, and right now all we’ve got to throw at it are spitballs. That’s another chore for you; familiarize yourself with the ‘Nancys.’ Figure out if they can handle a gun without shaking themselves apart, and if they can, cook up a way to mount one.”
“Yes, sir. Uh, Colonel Mallory? How come you call them ‘Nancys’?”
Bencs expression became pained. “ I don’t usually call them that, but I guess it’s stuck. Don’t worry about it; it’s a long story.”
CHAPTER 8
Mid Pacific
I say,” said Courtney Bradford, stunned, as if he’d just made some momentous discovery. “It’s Christmas Day!” He glared around the darkened bridge of USS Walker, casting a suddenly scandalized look at the new first lieutenant, Norman Kutas. Norm had been chief quartermaster’s mate, and still kept the log. Norm looked back, his scarred face crumpled in a frown, made even more gruesome by the poor light. He had the morning watch, 0400 to 0800, and was the only other human on the bridge.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Bradford, I know,” he said, “but it ain’t like there’s a Christmas tree, presents, and kiddos chompin’ at the bit.”
“There should be,” Courtney said with conviction. “We’ve let too many of our traditional observances fall by the wayside. It’s scandalous, sir! Scandalous! And here I was, left alone to discover it… It shall not stand!”
“I was going to mention it to the Skipper when the watch changes,” Kutas defended.
“But you didn’t ‘mention’ it to me! No ‘Merry Christmas, Mr. Bradford’ did I hear!”
“Well, with the rest of the bridge watch being ’Cats, who wouldn’t know Christmas from Armistice Day, I guess it slipped my mind. You’ve never been up this early, that I recall, and besides… I sort of figured with your ‘Darwin this,’ and ‘evolution that,’ you weren’t such a Holy Joe.”
“That’s the second time someone has questioned my faith on such an assumption!” Courtney declared. “And what would the captain do?” he demanded, righteous indignation beginning to swell. “Last Christmas came and went without so much as a notice…” He paused, reflecting. “Perhaps understandable, under the circumstances, but not twice in a row! I recall Captain Reddy took note of the unremarkable date of your misguided separation from the British Empire, but again Christmas is upon us without fanfare!”
“The Imperials had a few decorations up,” Kutas offered, a little lamely, “for their ‘Christmas Feast.’ ”
“Unacceptable! And of no use to you as an excuse. What’s the time?”
Kutas was increasingly flustered. Bradford’s stream of consciousness mode of communication was well-known, but it always caught his victims off guard. The Lemurians on the bridge were amused by the discussion, but, as Kutas had predicted, had little idea what it was about. The chronometer on the forward bulkhead was long deceased, and Kutas looked at his watch. “Uh, oh four forty-three,” he said.