"I don't know why, but the Skipper does, and he's the only one that has to," Rodriguez said, tying his shoe and hurrying for the ladder.
"C'mon, or the snipes'll clean out the galley!"
Chack happily munched the strange yellowish-white substance rolled in a slice of bread. He'd heard them call it "eggs," but Mertz made it from powder, so they must have been joking. He liked the way Amer-i-caans joked, and they did it all the time. Sometimes he wasn't sure if they were joking or not, however. After it was cooked, the stuff did taste a little like eggs, and he particularly liked it with salt and "caatch-up."
Finished eating, he climbed to the fire-control platform, then up the little ladder to his new battle station on the searchlight platform above it. It was still dark, but just a trace of red tinged the eastern sky. A stiff breeze cooled him, and he felt a sense of exhilaration and speed, even at only six knots. That was still about as fast as he'd ever gone before, and Walker's relatively small size magnified the sensation wonderfully. He knew it was only a fraction of what she was capable of, and he yearned to be aboard when she "stretched her legs," as his Amer-i-caan friends described it.
Lieutenant Garrett appeared on the platform below and smiled up at Chack.
"Good morning, Loo-ten-aant Gaar-ret! Morning-day good!"
"Indeed it is. Good morning to you as well. Why don't you light along to the crow's nest and take the first watch? Sing out if those keen eyes of yours spot anything. Understand?" Chack blinked with pleasure and looked at the tiny bucket far above. He'd spent most of his life much higher, but it was the highest point on the ship and he was thrilled by the novelty and—in his mind—the prestige of the post.
"Crow's nest? Me?"
"That's right, Chack. Crow's nest. You. Up you go."
"You want I go higher? I go top of pole?"
Garrett chuckled. "No, the crow's nest is high enough." He pantomimed putting on the headset. "You have to be able to talk and hear. But don't talk unless you see something!"
"Ay, ay!" Chack said, and shot up the ladder. Garrett shook his head, still smiling, as he watched the Lemurian climb. The long, swishing tail did make him look like a cat, or for that matter, a monkey. Whatever he looked like, he was becoming a pretty good hand, and nobody came close to matching his enthusiasm or agility. He was wondering with amusement if they could recruit more like him, when all weapons reported "manned and ready" and he reported for his division.
The sky went from red to yellow-gray and visibility began to improve.
The other lookouts scanned for any menace with their binoculars, and a quarter mile off their port quarter, Big Sal began to take shape. The gray became suffused with gold that flared against the bottoms of fleecy clouds and cast a new coastline into stark relief off the port bow. Ahead lay the Makassar Strait and, beyond that, Celebes. But right now all eyes were glued to the landfall. Matt paced onto the port bridgewing and joined the lookout there.
"Borneo, Skipper," said the man in a tone of mixed excitement and apprehension. They had almost exactly the same view as when they'd last seen it, astern, after the Battle of Makassar Strait—just a few months before. Then they were running as fast as they could, with the enemy nipping at their heels. They'd been scared to death but flushed with elation after the only real "victory" the Asiatic Fleet had achieved: against the Japanese invasion force at Balikpapan. They sank several transports and a destroyer—just Walker and four other four-stackers—but it hadn't been nearly enough, and they were lucky to escape with their skins. They should have had a larger haul, but a lot of their torpedoes either never hit their targets or failed to explode when they did hit. That was when they first suspected something was wrong with them. Now they were returning, but not like they'd imagined they would.
"It looks the same," said the lookout, then added with a grin, "only there's no smoke from burning Nips."
"There was plenty of smoke," Matt agreed, "but we wouldn't have seen it from here. Balikpapan's still a hundred and fifty miles away."
They heard a whoop over the crow's nest comm. "Surfuss taagit! Surfuss taagit!"
After a shocked delay, the frustrated talker responded. "Where?
Where?! What bearing? Who the hell's up there foolin' around? Maintain proper procedures!" There was no response. Matt looked up at the crow's nest, and there was Chack, not in it but on top of it, standing as high as he could and waving both arms over his head. He uttered a low-pitched, but astonishingly loud ululating cry. He was signaling something or someone ahead, and Matt turned and stared as hard as he could, scanning back and forth. It was that tough time of morning when submarines were so dangerous. The sky was growing brighter, but the sea was almost black.
Unless something was silhouetted, it was practically invisible.
"There, sir!" cried the lookout. "Not three hundred yards away, dead ahead! A boat!"
Matt shifted his gaze and sure enough, a boat appeared in his binoculars. It was about forty feet long, with two tripod masts and junklike sails.
It was also ridiculously close. There was no silhouette since the masts were short and Borneo provided a backdrop. He was amazed that even Chack had seen it. "Helm, right ten degrees. All engines stop!"
"Right ten degrees, all stop, aye," came the reply. Matt studied the boat and saw figures now, scampering excitedly about.
"More 'Cats," he said. "I'll be damned."
"Skipper," said Rick Tolson, "look a little to the left." Matt did so, and to his surprise he saw another boat. And another! "They're fishermen!"
Tolson exclaimed with complete certainty. "Coastal fishermen! Look!"
Each small ship had one end of a net hooked to its side, while the other was supported by a long boom. As they watched, the boom on the farthest boat began to rise. The end of the net drew closed as the boom rose higher, and a multitude of flopping, thumping, silvery shapes poured onto the deck. Nimble Lemurians waded among them with clubs that rose and fell. At a shouted warning, a few club wielders stopped and looked in shock at the destroyer coasting toward them. Chack silenced his booming cry, but jabbered excitedly at the fishermen as they drew near.
"Mr. Tolson, relieve the crow's nest lookout and send him to the fo'c'sle to talk more easily with the fishing boats. Use the engines to maintain position to windward of them, if you please."
Moments later, Chack was on the fo'c'sle, leaning forward and conversing with the nearest boat. Its crew hadn't raised their net and they all stood, amazed, looking up at him.
"He sure got there quick enough," Tolsen observed. "My God, I think he slid down the forestay!"
Matt chuckled. "Well, thanks to his keen eyes, we didn't ram anybody.
But do have a word with him about procedures. The last thing we need is other guys trying a stunt like that—which they will—just to prove that if he can do it, they can too." He looked back at the fishing boats, their crews now shouting excitedly back at Chack. Beyond them in the distance, clearer now, was Borneo. Lush and green and familiar. And yet . . . It was almost like seeing a photograph of a place he'd been. It looked like it, but it wasn't it. He remembered what Bradford had said about the "wild" Grik they'd dissected: judge it by what it is like, not what it looks like. There was a profound difference. He wondered how different Borneo would be.
They saw many more boats that day. Most were fishermen, like the first they met, and Chack explained that land People fished only mornings and evenings when the smaller fish came to the shallows where the gri-kakka felt confined. The big plesiosaurs could go shallow, but were usually content to linger in deeper water and wait for food to come to them. Most of the boats they saw weren't designed or equipped to hunt the brutes, although their fat was a valuable commodity. That was a job for a Home.