Sandra’s eyes narrowed, and for an instant she hesitated. She’d faced this kind of attitude all her life and it was particularly pervasive in the military. Her father had perhaps been the worst, refusing to accept that she might do something with her life other than wait for “the right guy” to come along. His restrictions and expectations might have been couched more gently than Stevens’s, but they were no less corrosive and condescending. And wrong. She’d proven that. She straightened her back and forced a smile.
“Surgeon’s Mate Stevens, is it not?” she asked, and her voice held an icy calm. Stevens arched an eyebrow, but jerked an aggressive nod.
“Your captain asked that we report to you and that’s what we’ve done. I know this is your ‘hospital’ and I’m prepared to defer to you.” Her voice took on a dangerous edge. “But since you insist on wallowing in your ‘lowly Warrant’ status I’ll remind you I’m a LIEUTENANT in the United States Navy. My ensigns might not pull rank on you, but I SURE AS HELL WILL! You’re clearly not a gentleman, so I won’t appeal to you as one, but as a superior officer I insist you get up off your skinny ass and show the respect due my rank or by God, I’ll have you up on charges for insubordination!”
Her voice had risen as she spoke, until her final exclamation was uttered as a roar that her small form seemed incapable of producing. Jamie Miller’s chair hit the deck as he rocketed to attention. Even the wounded Marine struggled to his feet, his face a study of embarrassment mingled with respect. Doc Stevens remained seated a few moments more, but finally he stood also, an expression of mocking insolence on his face. He threw an exaggerated salute.
“Your orders, ma’am?” The question dripped sarcasm, but Sandra smiled in anticipation of his reaction. She looked at Jamie. “You!”
“Pharmacist’s Mate Miller, ma’am.”
“Mr. Miller, stow those dominoes and disinfect that table this instant. We could have casualties at any moment.” She looked at the blood-soaked bandage the Marine wore. “Are you even fit for duty?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Hmm. I doubt it, but we’ll see. We’ll have a look at that leg presently, circumstances permitting.”
Stevens cleared his throat. “And what about me?” he demanded, surly. Sandra was sorely tempted to upbraid him again, but instead she smiled sweetly and indicated the rest of the nurses.
“You, MISTER Stevens . . . will tell us what you want us to do next. This is your ‘hospital,’ after all.”
Matt had already forgotten his encounter with Captain Kaufman. He had far more important concerns. A Morse-lamp message from Captain Gordon was composed of only three words: “Enemy in sight.”
Exeter’
s lookouts had a higher vantage point than Rodriguez, but just a few moments later Garrett held his earpiece tight against his head and looked up.
“Sir! Rodriguez sees them too. Still dead astern, but coming up fast. They must be making thirty-five knots!” He sounded incredulous. Matt nodded. Even without
Exeter
slowing them down,
Walker
couldn’t outrun them. Not anymore.
“Very well, Mr. Garrett. Return to your station. Mr. Rogers?” he said to the first officer. “Relieve Rodriguez in the crow’s nest, if you please. If we can see them, they can hit us. Lieutenant Flowers”—he addressed the navigating officer—“take the conn.”
Flowers spoke to the man holding the brightly polished wheel. “I relieve you, sir.”
The seaman relinquished his post. “Mr. Flowers has the conn,” he responded and looked around, at a loss. Matt motioned for him to put on a headset.
“Sound general quarters again. We’ve been at battle stations all morning, but somebody might be fooling around in the head.”
The rhythmic, ill-sounding
gong, gong, gong
of the general alarm reverberated throughout the ship.
In the aft fireroom, Brad “Spanky” McFarlane, the engineering officer, wiped sweat from his narrow face and shook it off his hand to join the black, slimy slurry on the deck plates. In the space containing the number three and four boilers, it was at least 130 degrees. He barely heard the sound of the alarm over the thundering blower and the roar of the burners as atomized fuel oil was consumed at a prodigious rate.
“Gotta get back to the forward engine room. That’s the second time they’ve sounded GQ. Maybe they mean it this time.”
Firemen Isak Reuben on the blower control and Gilbert Yager on the burner nodded, but paid him no further attention. They were both entirely focused on their tasks. Their two jobs, and that of the water tender, required careful concentration. Too much fuel and not enough air, and black smoke billowed from the stacks, earning an instant reprimand from the captain and the scorn of their fellow “snipes.” Not enough feed water in the lines, and white steam rose overhead. Too much water, not enough air and fuel, and water instead of steam sprayed into the turbines. That could damage the delicate blades. Isak and Gilbert were magicians at their jobs and the very best he had, but McFarlane didn’t know what to think of them otherwise. They were inseparable, but rarely talked to anyone else. They were both wiry, intense little men, and neither seemed to mind the hellish temperatures in which they worked. Even off duty, they lingered in the vicinity of their posts—which annoyed the men on watch. They never caused any trouble, but they didn’t make friends and they didn’t play on the ship’s baseball team. They just kept to themselves. The other snipes called them the White Mice, or just the Mice, because of their similar, almost rodent-like expressions and because they never went above deck if they could help it. Therefore, their otherwise perpetually sooty skins had an unhealthy pallor. The only explanation McFarlane ever got was that if they spent too much time in the “cool” air on deck, they’d lose their tolerance for the temperatures in the fireroom. McFarlane shrugged and stepped to the air lock. They were squirrels, sure enough, but they were his squirrels.
He cycled through the air lock into the forward engine room. He was shaped much like the Mice, and he barely had to squat to step through. The large compartment was filled by the big turbines and a maze of steam lines and conduits, but he moved among them with practiced ease to the enclosed intercom by the main throttle control. “Throttle manned and ready,” he said into the mouthpiece. The talker on the bridge acknowledged, and Spanky looked at the other throttlemen. They looked back with almost pathetically hopeful expressions. They were all so young, and the faith they placed in him and their “new” captain made him feel uncomfortable.
He wasn’t much of a poker player. He disliked games of chance. He felt at ease only when he was totally in control of everything it was his business to control. Right now his business was the engines, and cantankerous as they were, he could handle that. He couldn’t influence the outcome of anything beyond the confines of his engine room, and in a way he was glad. Deep inside, however, was a feeling like the one he hated whenever he did play poker: knowing that his destiny, or at least a portion of his pay, was at the mercy of the cardboard rectangle held carelessly in
19
the dealer’s hand and knowing that luck alone would dictate how it affected him. He understood the sense of frustrated helplessness plaguing the young sailors nearby. It gnawed him too. But he couldn’t let it show—just as the captain couldn’t. All he could do was hope for an ace. Somehow, they’d drawn the right cards so far, in spite of their deficiencies, but the Japanese kept stacking the deck. He hoped Captain Reddy had some card tricks of his own, because that was what they’d need to survive this call.
Matt squinted ahead against the sun. It no longer streamed directly through the windows, but it was bright enough to make everything washed-out and fuzzy. Suddenly, exactly where he looked, two closely spaced geysers of spume erupted directly in their path, two hundred yards ahead. This was followed by the superfluous report of his talker that the enemy had opened fire. The columns of water thrown up by the eight-inch shells were at least as tall as the mast. Matt glanced at his watch and took note of the time. He was glad to see that his hand was steady. His carefully hidden anxiety of a few moments before had subsided now that the first shots had been fired. Large, grayish-brown clouds enveloped
Exeter
as her own eight-inch guns replied to the Japanese salvo. The overpressure of the report shook the pilothouse windows. The waiting was over, and Matt felt a surge of exhilaration edge out the anticipation even further. It was much like the baseball games of his youth, he reflected. He sometimes got so keyed up for a game that he felt physically sick. He didn’t know why, but he suspected he was afraid he would screw up somehow. He played third base, and in his mind’s eye he always saw himself missing the critical catch and thus allowing the other team to score the game-winning point. The idea of such humiliation was worse than enduring the real thing, and always, as soon as the first pitch was thrown, his nervousness was forgotten. He supposed this wasn’t a dissimilar context, although if he screwed up here much more than a game was at stake.
Exeter
’s salvos came faster than Matt would have expected, and he noticed with a sense of admiration and vicarious pride that Captain Gordon had replaced
Exeter
’s naval jack with an enormous battle flag, much like the little destroyer
Electra
had done in the Battle of the Java Sea when she charged the enemy fleet all alone. That action saved the crippled
Exeter
from destruction by forcing the enemy to maneuver to avoid
Electra
’s torpedoes, but the resulting fusillade of enemy shells obliterated the gallant destroyer. It was one of the bravest things Matt had ever seen, and he’d seen a lot of courage in the last few months. Unfortunately, he thought bitterly, most had been futile.
The enemy shells became more concentrated, and the great plumes erupted continuously around the veteran cruiser. The impacts seemed to have increased in number as well.
“Sir,
Exeter
has sent a radio message. I guess they don’t think we’ll see their Morse lamp through the splashes.” It was Petty Officer 1st Class Steve “Sparks” Riggs, the comm officer, who had scampered down from the fire-control platform above.
“What does she say?” asked Matt impatiently.
“Two more Jap ships, heavy cruisers at least, and three destroyers bearing two one five! The heavies have opened fire.
Exeter
says her fire control is out—no hits yet, it just quit. They’ve gone to local control of the main battery.” Matt’s sense of exhilaration turned to dread. Without her fire-control equipment,
Exeter
was nearly as helpless as her escorts. “Captain Gordon wants us to take formation with the other destroyers astern and make smoke.”
Matt nodded. “Acknowledge. Confirm
Pope
and
Mahan
received as well. Make the adjustment, Mr. Flowers,” he said, addressing the helmsman. “I’m going topside for a look. You have the deck.”
“I have the deck, aye, sir.”
Matt turned and climbed briskly up the ladder to the platform above. Now, except for the mast and the four slender funnels beyond it directly astern, he had a full 360-degree view of the panoramic drama of which
Walker
was, so far, such an insignificant part. Garrett stepped from the range-finder platform.
“More Japs, sir! They just popped out from behind that squall. Do you see? There!” He raised his long arm and pointed far astern, off the port quarter. “There’s more and more rain squalls,” he added hopefully. The deck tilted as
Walker
heeled into a sharp turn to starboard. The blowers lost their intensity briefly, as Flowers reduced speed to join
Walker
’s partners forming in
Exeter
’s wake. Off to the west-northwest, a number of indistinct ships were visible to the naked eye, not far from the coast of Borneo. That landmass appeared as a hazy smear, but it was actually closer than it seemed. The shoreline was obscured by the same squall that had concealed the Japanese ships.
“I see them, Mr. Garrett,” he said in what he hoped was a confident tone, but he felt like he’d pronounced their death sentence. There were now two distinct battle groups in pursuit and far above in those loitering planes he knew even more forces were being called. It would probably not be long before attack aircraft arrived as well. He leaned over the speaking tube. “Let’s make a little smoke, Mr. Flowers.”
Immediately, his orders were relayed to the torpedomen, who sprang to activate the smoke generators. At the same time, in the boiler rooms, the burner batters exchanged the sprayer plates to increase the flow of oil through the burners. Slowly at first, but building rapidly, a huge column of sooty black smoke gushed from the funnels and piled into the clear morning sky. It was joined by the smoke of the other three destroyers, rapidly creating an opaque wall between them and the enemy. The incoming fire began to slacken, and Matt stared aft at the huge cloud they were creating. It seemed to blot out the entire western horizon. Lieutenant Garrett glanced at him when he chuckled quietly. “I always get a hoot out of doing that.”
They continued east-southeast under a black pall. The enemy barrage was less accurate, but it didn’t stop. The cruisers were in direct radio contact with the spotting planes overhead, correcting their fire. The Allied squadron tried to zigzag subtly, to increase the correction error, but they couldn’t deviate much from a straight heading because the enemy was already faster and zigzagging slowed them down. All they could hope for was a squall of their own to hide in, to stretch the chase until dark. Then they might change course unnoticed and lose their pursuers. Matt had little hope of that. It was now only 1100. Whatever fate awaited them, it would certainly unfold before the sun went down.
Lieutenant Rogers’s excited voice screamed from Garrett’s headphones. “Surface target! Starboard quarter! Four Nip destroyers out of the smoke. God, they’re fast!” The ordnance strikers on the platform swung the gun director.