The latch on the compartment hatch clanked, and his heart began to race. With a joy he could barely contain, he saw the Japanese officer who’d been so kind to him. How long had it been since his last visit? Months? It didn’t matter. He’d feared the creatures had eaten him, but here he was, alive! The treasured face contorted into a grimace of distaste, probably at the smell in the compartment, but honestly, Kaufman didn’t notice it anymore. He felt tears sting his eyes; he couldn’t help it.
“Captain Kaufman?” The greeting came almost as a question, as though the officer didn’t recognize him.
“Oh, ah, yes! It’s me!” he croaked. It seemed strange to speak after so long, and it was pleasant to have someone confirm he was who he thought he was.
“You have not been eating!” the officer accused. Kaufman’s face contorted into a grimace of contrition. He understood how the officer might think that, since he’d lost so much weight.
“But I have!” he insisted fervenace of disped up, offering an outlet for his frustrations, it actually cheered him up.
“That’s ‘Chief ’ Silva to you, Laney, you frumpy little turd.” He tugged on the visored hat he now wore for emphasis. For some inexplicable reason, the Bosun had given it to him, and it wasn’t even his oldest, most beat-up one, either. He just said if Silva was going to be a chief, he had to look like one. Laney wore one of Donaghey’s old hats, and despite the fact that he was larger than the late engineer, it was too big, and only his ears and eyebrows held it up. Otherwise, no one else aboard would have called Laney “little,” though. He was only slightly shorter than Silva, and a comment like that would once have started a fairly equal fight. Now, both were conscious of the limitations placed on them by the new hats they wore. All the same, Laney suddenly remembered another time, and he was glad they were standing by the solid rail instead of the safety chains.
“It ain’t your machine shop, neither,” Silva added. “I swear, you’ve got mighty uppity of late. One of your ’Cats even wants to strike for the deck.” He shook his head. “Shows good sense if you ask me, but Spanky and Donaghey never ran anybody off. You always was a asshole, but you’ve got even worse since they gave you that hat.”
“Who is it?” Laney growled. “We’ll see about that!”
“Ain’t gonna tell you. He don’t want ordnance anyway. Ask the Bosun when we pick him up.”
Laney hesitated. He couldn’t afford to lose anybody, but he also couldn’t go crawling to the Bosun. “Well, what about the machine shop?” he demanded. “Spanky’s gonna shit worm gears when I don’t deliver them parts!”
Silva laughed. “I cleared it with Spanky before we started. Besides, he said you got scads of spare pressure couplings by now; you’re just doin’ busywork.”
“Well… the second reduction pinion off the low-pressure turbine is thrashed-God damn lube oil we’re getting ain’t up to spec-and we gotta turn a new one. ’Sides, what are you doin’ in there, makin’ mop handles?”
“Matter of fact, we broke the firin’ pin on number three this mornin’-all the practicin’ I’ve had the fellas doin’-and we figured we’d make another one.” He scratched his beard. “Funny, but without a firin’ pin, we can’t make the big, scary bullets go out the other end. I told Stites to make a dozen while he was at it. There’s a fair chance we’ll break another one.”
“What about my pinion?”
“You gonna put it in while we’re underway? That’d be a rodeo! You’re a crummy machinist anyway; I don’t care what your rating is. Hell, Juan’s a better lathe man than you; so’s the Jap. You’d be just as well using a mop handle as anything you’d turn out.”
Chack was listening to the conversation with amusement a few steps away. It went on a little longer, but finally Laney stormed aft, grumbling with every step. Chack drifted over and replaced him at the rail and caught Silva chuckling.
“I never knew what ‘love’ was, or ‘sad’ or ‘safe,’ or really ‘happy’ either, but now I guess I do.” He suddenly slapped Chack on the back hard enough to take his breath. “I love you like the brother I never had, and Stites and Rodriguez, Mertz, Kutas, even Juan and all the others, ’cept maybe Laney. He’s a jerk. The Mice-and Bradford!-are like the freak cousins nobody ever talks about, but I even love them too. The skipper’s not that much older’n me, but him or the Bosun are the closest thing to a real dad I ever had, ’cause they keep me in line without a harness strap, and they do it for my own good.” His mighty fist pounded the rail. “And I love this damned old ship that’s as old as I am. She’s the only real home I’ve ever had. She leaks, she squeaks, hell, sometimes she coughs and gags. She prob’ly couldn’t hold her own in a stand-up fight against a rowboat full of Boy Scouts with BB guns, but she’s my goddamn home!”
Silva quickly turned away and jabbed his fingers in his eyes, rubbing vigorously. “Damn soot!” he mumbled huskily. “Snipes must’ve blown tubes on one of the boilers.” After a while, he turned to face Chack again with a mysterious dampness around his eyes. He made a production of pulling a pouch from his pocket and biting off a chew. Finally, when the quid was properly formed in his cheek, he spoke again.
“You wanna know if me and Risa have wrassled and romped around, and had a little fun; that’s none of your damn business. Do I love her? Sure I do, and I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. She’s my pal. Will I tear your heart out and eat it if you spill any of what I just told you? You can bet your life on it, brother or not.”
Captain Reddy was watching the two from the perspective of the open deck behind the pilothouse. He grunted. He was glad to see that, whatever accord Chack and Silva had reached, at least they’d made up. He needed them too badly, and their strained relationship had been felt throughout the ship. Turning, he rejoined Keje, Bradford, and Adar, where they were discussing Maa-ni-la protocol on the starboard bridge wing. There wasn’t that much to discuss; it was roughly the same as Baalkpan-the two land homes were related, after all-and they’d already been over it a dozen times. There’d be the initial “request to come aboard” that was a holdover from the seafaring tradition all ’Cats shared and most still adhered to, but Matt, as “High Chief” of Walker, must make the request this time himself. A lot would depend on how he was received by San-Kakja, Maa-ni-la’s High Chief. Walker was a very small “Home,” after all, and despite Matt’s position, and what he represented within the Alliance, San-Kakja might not recognize him as a High Chief. Nobody wanted to set the precedent that every captain of every fishing boat or trader had the same status as the leaders of the great Homes of the sea and land. Even if he was accepted, however, it’d be up to Keje or Adar to do most of the talking. Matt’s Lemurian was improving, but it wasn’t up to the task of serious negotiations. San-Kakja was a new High Chief and an unknown, but it was a safe bet he knew no English, and Matt might as well recite nursery rhymes when he spoke. Keje and Adar already knew what to say.
He glanced at his watch and compared it to the clock on the bulkhead. It was almost time for the watch change, and he’d soon reli you immediately try to learn as much as you can about the reports of an ‘iron fish.’ If it’s a submarine, as I suspect, I need to know as much as possible about what it looked like and where it was most recently sighted. I understand it hasn’t been seen for months. It’d undoubtedly be out of fuel by now, so we’ll have to base our search on its last reported position, investigate the closest islands and so forth. Hopefully, we can begin that process while your discussions are still underway, if they drag out too long. We really need to find that boat. It could make all the difference.”