Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(36)
“Ah, better excuse me. This looks like trouble. Probably have to stomp out a mutiny or somethin’.”
“Of course, Co-maander Spaan-ky,” Keje replied, his gruff voice amused. The others nodded, also expecting something interesting.
Spanky strode to meet the interruption, limping only slightly, and stopped in front of Tabby, hands on his hips. “So, what’s the deal?” he demanded. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” In response, Isak smacked the deck with the tube again, leaving a round, waxy imprint on the gray-painted wood. On a ship like Tarakaan Island there was no point keeping the decks holy-stoned bright, like on the steam frigate DDs, and everything on her had been heavily painted the same “dazzle” scheme as Santa Catalina. That would likely become the new standard, Spanky reflected. It didn’t conceal ships from the air as well as a dark gray or blue might, but foamy wakes pointed directly at ships underway, so such camouflage was questionable, at any rate. On the other hand, contrasting geometric shapes of different gray shades definitely made it harder to judge the silhouette and range of a surface target from a distance.
“This here’s the damn deal,” Isak announced, his reedy voice indignant as he thumped the deck once more. Tabby’s division had torn down the shattered number three boiler as soon as it cooled. They couldn’t fix it, so they might as well. And they’d started on number two as soon as Walker steamed for Mahe. It had been secured before it could also fail, but they’d been keeping it as a spare. Number four had been their sole remaining “healthy” boiler. While disassembling the boilers and condensers, they’d discovered a number of things, most significant being the quality—or lack thereof—of some of the tubes Walker received as replacements during previous overhauls. Tubes that were in every boiler of every steamer built in Baalkpan and Maa-ni-la . . . Captain Reddy had fired off warnings via wireless, as well as a demand that the tubes be improved. Alan Letts replied that the problem had already come to his attention and been addressed. To make sure Tarakaan Island had the latest tubes, four brand-new PB-5D Clipper flying boats, already loaded with everything from ammunition to the last reserves of parts for Ben Mallory’s remaining P-40s, had been hastily stuffed with as many standard-length boiler tubes as they could carry. The result had been a grueling 5,400-mile, 40-hour (counting refueling stops) flight from Baalkpan via Sinaa-pore, Andamaan, Madraas, and La-laanti, all the way to Mahe. It had been one of the longest flights Clippers ever made, and was a testament to their design and durability that all arrived without mishap.
Isak didn’t care about that, or that Walt “Jumbo” Fisher’s Pat-Squad 22 had just been increased from three planes, with one down for repairs, to seven. What he cared about, when he and Tabby scrambled aboard one of the planes and stripped the oilcloth wrappings off several tubes with the anticipation of children under a Christmas tree, was what brought this diverse assembly to Spanky immediately thereafter. Spanky sighed. “And what’s the matter with ‘this’ here?” he demanded, nodding at the tube. It was coated with a water-soluble protectant of some kind of wax, cut with gri-kakka oil, by the smell. Isak thumped the deck once more for emphasis and the tube slipped from his grasp to clatter on the deck, nearly rolling into the repair basin below. A civilian ’Cat with yellow and orange fur and a dark brown–and-red plaid kilt lunged to save it. With some fumbling, he held it up, casting a series of hateful blinks at Isak, then turned to Spanky.
“Is nutt-een wong wit it!” he proclaimed.
“And you are?”
“Laap-Zol-Jeks, Chief Ma-sheenits, Baalkpan Boiler an Ma-sheenry Works.” The Lemurian pronounced his title very carefully. “I an’ my mates”—Laap gestured at the others—“flyed all de lon’-ass way wit’ d’ese fine toobs to make sure dey’s in-staalled right.”
Isak’s eyes bulged, and Tabby grabbed him before he could jump on the ’Cat like a grasshopper. “You’re gonna tell me how to install yer shitty tubes?” he snarled. “Why, I oughta install one right up yer fuzzy ass!”
“Shut it, Isak!” Spanky snapped. “Walker may not have a brig, but Tarakaan Island does. So help me, I’ll throw you in it for the rest of the war. Control your division, Lieutenant,” he told Tabby.
“I just did,” she said, shoving Isak behind her, where he sputtered and glared flashing knives at the three other ’Cats.
“So what’s wrong with the new tubes?”
“They’re just like the last ones!” Tabby snatched the offending object from Laap, nearly dropping it herself, and held it up to Spanky. “See? The number painted on it’s the same as the others. The color’s the same”—she pointed it at the late-morning sun for him to peer down its length—“an’ there’s the same fat-aass seam runnin’ the length o’ this so-called seamless tubin’! It’s no daamn different at all.”
“Is diff’rent!” Laap insisted. “We maybe had . . . ish-yoos wit’ some few toobs.”
“Issues!” Isak hooted. “Why, the only tubes worth a shit left in Walker’s boilers’re what’s left of the ones she came with new. An’ they been steamin’ hard for twenty-five years!”
“Shut uuuup!” Spanky ground out once more, looking at Laap. “But he’s right.” He glanced at Tabby, then leveled his gaze on the other Lemurian. “Now, I know there’s always a visible seam in unreamed tubing; it’s the nature of the seam that makes it”—he shrugged—“well, seamless. But I taught the class on how to make the stuff, and it was going fine . . . for a while. More important, I had Tabby’s job before she did, so I’m skeptical too.” Deliberately, he paused long enough to add fresh tobacco from a pouch to the wad in his cheek. “And when it comes down to it,” he continued, “I’m the one you gotta convince more than anybody.” He pointed at Walker. “Captain Reddy’s gonna steam that ship in harm’s way again on my say-so, and if the new tubes ain’t fine and cost a single life, I’ll make you sorry you ever saw a piece of steel with a hole in it. Am I clear?”