Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(81)
“How does she feel, Skipper?” asked Bernie Sandison, Walker’s torpedo officer, tipping his hat up on his dark hair. Even this early, sweat was trickling down his temples.
Matt forced the grim thoughts from his mind and managed a cheerful tone. “Pretty good, as a matter of fact. A lot of the shaft vibration’s gone, and the rudder responds like it should again. We’ll know better when she stretches her legs. Minnie?” he called behind him to the tiny Lemurian bridge talker. Min-Sakir didn’t really look like Minnie Mouse, except for size, maybe, but her voice was just as small, and that was what earned her nickname long ago. She was a good talker who kept her cool, and her little voice inspired a measure of amusement that seemed to help others do the same in times of stress. “Anything from Tabby yet?”
“She on her way up now.”
“Dead slow ahead,” Matt called to his first officer, Chief Quartermaster Patrick “Paddy” Rosen. Rosen was technically the OOD, but just as Matt had taken the wheel, Rosen stood by the lee helm, the engine order telegraph.
“Dead slow ahead, aye,” Rosen replied, moving the levers on both sides of the EOT to the desired position amid a clash of bells. Almost instantly, the bells rang again and the pointers matched. “Tabby’s girls are on the ball.” Rosen grinned. Most of Walker’s snipes were female now, Lemurians and former Imperials. Spanky’s early objections to any female aboard, let alone in “his” engineering spaces, had long ago given way to grudging acceptance. And engineering was Tabby and Isak’s concern now. Tabby had seen the trouble many females of both species had in the deck divisions, where stature and physical strength were often more important, and had been the driving force behind the change. “Broads’re plenty strong, an’ can take the heat,” she’d explained. As far as anyone could tell, Isak Reuben—not much bigger than Tabby, and one of the few males still in her division—didn’t care one way or another.
Chief Jeek’s bosun’s call squealed on the fo’c’sle, echoed by whistles aft, and ’Cats gathered with lines in their hands. “Dead slow astern,” Matt said, turning the wheel as the ship nosed toward the dock where line handlers waited. Slowly, the old destroyer quivered to a near stop, barely inching forward as her screws reversed. “All stop,” he finally said, and moments later, the sailors on the fo’c’sle tossed their lines. “Secure the engines,” Matt instructed, “but we’ll keep the steam pressure up to break the boilers in, and I want to go for a run in two hours.” He stepped away from the wheel and smiled, noting that Tabby had joined them. “Mr. Rosen, you have the deck again.”
“Ay, ay, sir. I have the deck.”
“So,” Matt asked Tabby. “What do you think?”
The gray-furred ’Cat shrugged noncommittally. “Is okay, I guess. Ever-thing seems good, but anybody can putter aroun’ a pond like we just done. We’ll see better later.”
“You’re right, and we will. In the meantime, I’m going ashore. I’joorka’s First North Borno is coming in. General Alden, Chack, Silva, and Lawrence are waiting to meet them, but I’d kind of like to see ’em for myself.” He shook his head. “A regiment half made up of people who look like Grik—on our side. It’s bound to be interesting, and I want to see what I’joorka’s like. Pass the word . . . Oh, there you are, Mr. McFarlane,” he said, seeing Spanky climb the metal stairs aft. “You can come along.”
Pam Cross, Walker’s surgeon, joined Matt and Spanky as they tromped down the gangway as soon as it slid out the entry port on the quarterdeck. Matt started to ask what the pretty, dark-haired girl from Brooklyn needed ashore, but bit his lip. When duty allowed, Pam could come and go as she pleased, and it was well-known that she was helplessly, probably stupidly, in love with Dennis Silva. Knowing exactly where he’d be, for once, she was going along. Silva’s only been aboard one time since we came to Mahe on Santa Catalina, Matt reflected, and then only to help tie the ship’s guns back into the director after they were relined and reinstalled. Granted, he’s been busy scheming with Chack and helping get his Raiders ready, but except for a brief reunion at Grik City, he’s been away from Pam a very long time. She’s probably annoyed that now they’re so close to each other again, he seems to be avoiding her. He considered. Then again, I’m not sure Silva’s just avoiding Pam. He’s just as devoted to Walker as anyone. Probably more than most. She’s the only home he’s ever had. But he’s been aboard only once since Chief Gray was killed.
In a way, he understood. He could certainly sympathize with Silva’s loss; he felt it every day himself. And now it had been magnified a hundredfold by his fear and uncertainty regarding Sandra’s fate. But he couldn’t let it overwhelm him or even look like it might. Each day was a struggle to stay calm, focused, even positive, for the sake of the hands. Pretending to be cheerful would be impossible, and he’d never pull it off. His crew knew him too well. But he must never let his inner turmoil influence him or those around him again. That’s probably how Silva feels, he realized. Gray was more a father to him than anyone, and Silva knows he . . . left things for him: his hat, pistol, his chief’s coin. It isn’t much, but Silva can’t afford to break down any more than I can, and if he spends too much time aboard, those things—and the memories—will draw him to them.