"Goddamn!" he squeaked and jerked back against the rail. Fumbling at his side for the pistol strapped there, he pulled it out, thumbing the safety off. An earsplitting roar shattered the night as he fired at the thing, again and again. Bullets spanged off the deck plates and whined over the water. Pieces of fish and flakes of paint rained down on the men who'd been sleeping nearby. The automatic's slide locked back, empty, and still Felts pointed it at the fish, jerking the trigger in convulsive panic.
Lanier flung down his pole. "You stupid son of a bitch!" he shrieked.
Heads were coming up slowly off the deck as men raised them with understandable caution, and voices called out to one another. The sound of shoes running on steel approached and Chief Campeti arrived with a battle lantern in one hand and a pistol in the other. The Bosun wasn't far behind, dressed only in T-shirt and skivvies.
"What the hell's goin' on here?" Campeti bellowed. "Who fired a weapon?" He shined the lantern around. Eyes, human and Lemurian, squinted in the glare. Finally the beam fell on Felts's terrified face and the smoking pistol, still outstretched. Campeti redirected the light and involuntarily stepped back. Gray saw the fish too. It was shot to pieces, but its terrible jaws still snapped spasmodically. A hook gleamed brightly, piercing the lower lip, and the line trailed to port.
"Who brought that thing on my deck?" Gray demanded.
"I did!" Lanier snarled, stepping up. "I work my ass off feeding these goons and I try to catch a little fish for myself and what happens? One of 'em destroys it!" The cook had his filleting knife in his hand and Gray wondered if he meant to use it on Felts. Instead, he knelt beside the twitching fish as if by a dying loved one. The knife moved over the corpse in benediction. "Destroyed," he lamented. Quite a gathering of half-naked men and entirely naked Lemurians had assembled by now.
"Anybody hurt?" Campeti asked. There were murmured voices, but no replies.
"No eat!" came a voice from the group.
"What?"
"No eat!" One of the cadets edged forward and stared down at the fish.
He looked up at Gray. "Bad fish. No eat. Make very . . . dead sick. Chops?
Chopping? Chopper! Chopper fish not food. Eat . . . dead!"
Gray prodded Lanier with his foot. "You hear that? Felts just saved your worthless life."
Campeti shined his light at Felts, who'd finally lowered the gun. He was shaking. "You okay?"
Felts gulped. "Snakes, Chief. Ever since I was a kid. Then that thing came whoopin' up over the side . . ." He shook his head.
Campeti took the pistol from his hand and nodded. "Me too." He shook out one of his last cigarettes and handed it over, then lit it for him when the gunner's mate's hands shook too much to do it himself.
Lieutenant Garrett had arrived. He wasn't wearing any more than Gray, but he'd put on his hat. "What's up, Chief?" he asked, and Gray told him what had happened.
While he was talking, Lanier stood up. "I demand that man be put on report!" he growled. "Shooting a pistol while everyone's sleepin', hell, he could'a shot somebody! Not to mention wreckin' my fish! He's in your division, Mr. Garrett. What are you gonna do?"
Garrett sighed and looked at Felts. They'd had a tough day and nerves were raw enough. Discipline was essential, but looking at that fish, he probably would have shot at it. "Ahhh . . ."
"Yeah, and you're in my division, Lanier," said Alan Letts, stepping forward. He, like Campeti, was fully dressed, although he hadn't been on watch. "What am I going to do with you? Creeping around in the middle of the night, releasing dangerous, poisonous creatures to run loose on deck . . ." There were loud guffaws while Letts shook his head.
"I hate to think what the captain would say about that." More laughter, and Lanier's chubby face blanched. Letts turned to Gray. "Bosun? Since the deck division seems most affected . . ." He paused until the laughter died down. "What with the damaged paintwork and the mess . . ." Even Felts was grinning now. "I suggest if Lieutenant Garrett agrees, you make the call."
Gray scratched his head and looked at Felts, whose grin immediately faded. Then he glared at Lanier, who wilted about as much as his abrasive personality allowed. When he spoke, his tone was very formal. "Mr. Lanier wouldn't knowingly allow anything more poisonous than the chow he feeds us aboard the ship"—hoots of glee—"so I hold him blameless so long as he cleans that nasty, slimy thing off my deck." His glare settled on Felts, who shriveled beneath its intensity. "On the other hand, I think the log should show Gunner's Mate Felts single-handedly defended the ship and her sleepin' crew from the sneak attack of a dangerous sea monster— provided I see him hard at work with a chippin' hammer and a can of paint first thing in the mornin', erasing all evidence of his heroic deed."
He looked at Garrett. "Lieutenant?"
"If that suits you, Bosun, I guarantee he'll be here."
"Mr. Letts?"
"Fine by me. Chief Campeti has the deck, though."
Campeti shrugged. "Bravest thing I ever saw. Blood everywhere and every shot hit. Boy ought'a get a medal."
Gray called out to Lanier, shuffling away in disgust. "Let's see that thing over the side right now, Earl. I don't want to see it again on my plate."
As the drama ebbed and the snores resumed, Campeti stayed with Felts. He still had the duty, and he wanted to make sure he was all right.
"That was somethin'," Felts whispered. "Mr. Letts sure came through.
I thought he was ashore. He's turnin' into a pretty good guy, for an officer."
"Yeah," Campeti muttered. "He was in a mighty good mood." Sonny Campeti was a man with many faults, and he was honest enough to know it. Spreading rumors wasn't one of them. Lieutenant Letts had stepped up to the plate beyond anyone's expectations. He'd gone from a comical, if popular, character to an essential member of the cadre that might get them through this alive. If the lipstick Campeti had seen smeared across his jaw in the light of the battle lantern was responsible for that, he wasn't going to make a peep. But damn!
Matt and Sandra remained at the celebration long enough to be polite, but the seep and other intoxicants flowed freely enough that they doubted their early departure was even noticed. It was the first time Matt had allowed the crew to really cut loose, and he was a little nervous about that.
They'd been told to have a good time (they'd earned it), and there was much to celebrate. He just hoped they wouldn't celebrate too hard. They'd destroyed two Grik ships and they were beginning to hate the Grik almost as much as the Japanese. The Mice found oil right where Bradford said they would and the Australian's prestige soared. He was last seen sprawled, insensible, on a pillow with Nakja-Mur. The Mice had disappeared. Matt suspected they'd crept back aboard the ship, and he hated to tell them they were still needed at the well. Again he felt a thrill at the prospect of full bunkers. These long weeks he'd felt so helpless, unable to do anything, and he was haunted by the fact that, somewhere out there, was Mahan.