The only things darkening his mood were the subconscious fuel gauge, creeping ever downward in his mind, and the continuing dull ache over what might have happened to Mahan.
He heard voices behind him and turned to see Courtney Bradford and Sandra Tucker asking permission to come on the bridge. Matt smiled broadly, waved them over beside him, and stood up. "Good afternoon, Lieutenant Tucker, Mr. Bradford. A fine day, is it not?"
"Indeed it is, Captain," replied the Australian, and Sandra smiled back at him. "I thought you'd like to know that we've finished our `science experiment' at last, and can manage without its, uh, services any longer."
"Thank God," said Matt, and chuckled. "I take it . . . I hope you mean you pitched the stinking thing over the side?" Sandra and Bradford had worked through the night and into the morning dissecting the dead creature from Bali. Some of the crew watched throughout, duties permitting, and Bradford kept up a running lecture the entire time. The rest of the crew, however, were increasingly vocal about the overpowering stench. Now they both stood, tired but with satisfied smiles on their faces.
"Yes, um, it has gone on to the reward it so richly deserved," answered Bradford in a dry tone. Matt chuckled again, but was secretly amazed that Bradford had given up so easily. He'd half expected him to ask to keep it in the refrigerator—or his cabin, if necessary. But Matt saw now that Courtney Bradford had undergone a transformation. It may have been subtle, and possibly fleeting, but he'd been there when they were attacked and he saw what happened to Marvaney. Besides, fascinating as the creatures were, they had also, at the very least, kept him from studying anything else. The furry lizards of Bali had become his enemies as surely as the Japanese.
"Well, what did you find out?"
"Quite a lot, actually. We don't believe they were lizards at all. At least I don't," he said. "Miss Tucker is not quite so fully convinced of that." He nodded at her respectfully. "But I believe they are somewhat more like birds in many ways."
"Birds? With teeth like that? You must be joking."
"No, sir, he's not," said Sandra. "I know a good bit about human anatomy, and anatomy in general, I suppose, but I'm obviously no expert on these creatures. Nobody is. Mr. Bradford has more experience studying . . . similar things than I do, and I can see his point. They're built like birds— or emus and ostriches, to be more precise—except for the upper arms, and their bones are hollow, but incredibly strong like a bird's. Our opinions diverge because of those upper arms, their tails, and well, their heads too, I guess. Their tails have feathers, but they're muscular like an alligator's. And their upper arms show no sign of being vestigial wings, but seem to have evolved as arms to be arms. And of course their heads." She shuddered slightly. "Or more specifically, their jaws. There's nothing birdlike about them at all."
"But my dear lieutenant," countered Bradford, evidently continuing an argument. "You're basing your opinions more upon what they look like and less on what they are like—"
Matt held up his hand, smiling still, to stop him. "Enough. While this is all very fascinating, my most pressing question involves their intelligence. Are they as smart as they seemed? I mean, there were ten of us and ten of them, and they displayed what to my mind could only be described as the tactic of hitting us and the men at the boat simultaneously—in a way that would keep us apart. As well armed as they are with teeth and claws, one on one, they had every reason to expect the advantage."
Sandra was silent, and Bradford shifted uncomfortably. "We don't really know, I'm afraid," he said at last. "Theoretically, yes. They certainly have the brain capacity, and in proportion to their body size, their brains are similar to our own. Then again . . ."
Matt nodded. The very idea of something that ferocious being smart was daunting indeed. There was no question that they would have to go ashore again. Maybe not on Bali, but the first time they had set a foot on land, something had tried to bite it off. They had to presume that other places wouldn't be any different. Somehow, they had to figure out how to go ashore—and work there—without being eaten.
The crow's nest comm whistled. "Bridge, lookout," came the tinny voice of Elden.
"Bridge, Riggs here," replied the petty officer.
"PO, I've got smoke on the horizon, bearing zero one five. A hell of a lot of smoke. There's so much I thought it was a cloud at first. It's pretty much the same color—not black like an oil fire. Whatever's burning is pretty big, though, and it's in the water. Not—repeat, not—on land."
"Excuse me, please," said Matt to his visitors, raising his binoculars.
"Can you see what it is yet?" Riggs asked the lookout. "Is it a ship, or what?"
"Negative, PO. All I see is smoke. Whatever it is, it's still . . . Wait! Damn! I'd about swear it was that big monkey-cat ship!" Matt lowered his binoculars with a strange mix of disappointment, relief, and curious concern. Disappointment that it wasn't Mahan, but relief that it wasn't Mahan on fire. The curious concern was for the monkey-cats, as Elden called them, if that's who it was. Well, he thought, if it is, maybe it's time we met. Besides, they appeared to be in trouble.
"All ahead full," he ordered. "Come right, fifteen degrees."
Walker's head came around and she quickly gathered speed. Water peeled back from her bow as she charged, the feather nearly reaching the fo'c'sle. The men on the foredeck stopped what they were doing and stood with fluttering clothes, their faces turned toward the rushing breeze and the towering column of smoke in the distance. Five minutes passed, then ten.
"Bridge?" came Elden's voice. The normally unflappable shipfitter sounded unusually strained.
"Bridge, aye."
"It's the monkey-cats all right, and there are several large three-masted ships around 'em. Most are lashed to her, and it looks like they're fighting! The monkey-cats are definitely burning—and maybe one of the other ships as well." There was a moment's pause. "I think there's a hell of a fight going on."
Matt turned to Reynolds. "Get the range from Mr. Barry," he ordered.
"Aye, aye, Captain," said Reynolds, wide-eyed. It was his first stint as talker, and it was just his luck something serious would happen. He spoke briefly into the microphone and listened for the response. His voice squeaked slightly when he reported. "Sir, Ensign Barry estimates the range at about fifteen thousand yards."
"Very well. Sound general quarters, if you please."
The deep gonging sound that was part horn, part buzzer resonated through the ship, and surprised men snatched helmets and life vests as they raced to their stations. Some rolled from their racks, disoriented for a moment, and hesitated like they would never have done before the Squall. Feet clanked metallically on the ladder as Lieutenant Garrett and the rest of the fire-control team gained the bridge and scampered to the platform above. Bernard Sandison appeared, tucking in his shirt, along with torpedomen Hale, Carter, and Aubrey, who took their places at the torpedo directors.
Reynolds recited a litany of readiness reports, and after much longer than Matt approved, he made the announcement: "All stations manned and ready, Captain. Mr. Dowden has the auxiliary conn and reports . . . um . . . the chaos he viewed from his perspective looked like a shorepatrol raid on an Olongapo . . . whorehouse." His face turned pink.