Periodically, the smoking timbers were pounded against the plate, pushing it a little closer to where it had been before the large roundshot bent it inward. It was the last one; all the others that had been displaced nearby had already been reformed. The racket of the sledges against the timbers in the confined space was terrific.
“Almost there, Lieuten-aant McFaar-lane,” cried a ’Cat between blows. Spanky nodded. He was far more than a mere lieutenant now, he was “Minister of Naval Engineering,” or something like that, but he didn’t care. Usually he couldn’t even remember whether his “official” Navy rank was lieutenant commander or commander, but it couldn’t have mattered less to him. Nobody would try to tell him what to do when it came to his area of expertise, and right now, aboard USS Walker, doing what he was doing, he was the ship’s engineering lieutenant, and that was it. As far as he could recollect, he and the Skipper were the only officers currently on the ship still performing their “old jobs.”
Spanky and Chief Bosun’s Mate Carl Bashear were inspecting the final touches on the repairs to Walker ’s hull. They’d already fixed several similar perforations acquired during the sharp action with the Company traitors. The hole that opened up the forward engine room had been the worst, not only puncturing the hull-right at a frame-but also knocking a double hole through one of the saddle bunkers. They’d salvaged most of the fuel, pumping it into bunkers they’d already run dry. They even saved most of what leaked into the bilge, just in case, but fixing that damage had been their most critical and difficult repair. They had found the roundshot that made the holes-and nearly took Brian Aubrey’s head off-rolling around in the bilge. Jenks identified it as a thirty-pounder. This struck everyone odd, since the Grand Alliance had sort of based its shot sizes on the old British system, and its closest equivalent was a thirty-two-pounder. The Brits themselves seemed to have abandoned the very system they brought with them-or adopted another. Oh, well, that wasn’t Spanky’s concern beyond the proof it provided concerning who’d shot it into them. Ulysses carried thirty-pounders. Even now, unless he missed his guess, her skipper was swinging for it.
“Nice to be able to fix something right for a change,” Bashear rumbled. It was a positive statement, but still came out with a tone of complaint.
“Yeah. Havin’ enough guys for a job makes a difference-not to mention havin’ somethin’ to do it with.”
Their labor pool and equipment list were far better than they’d ever been when they’d attempted similar repairs in the past; they had spare plate steel, rivets, and plenty of acetylene-even if it popped and sputtered-and Walker ’s crew was actually somewhat over complement for a change too. Almost two-thirds of that crew was Lemurian now, but they took up less space and more would fit. Many were Chack’s Marines, who had shipboard duties as well. Spanky was generally satisfied with the growing professionalism and competency of all their “new” ’Cats, and he’d long been pleased with the “old hands,” who’d signed on as cadets when Walker first dropped anchor in Baalkpan Bay, but there was just no way he’d ever get used to certain aspects of this new navy they’d created.
He sneezed. Lemurians sweated more like horses than men, kind of “lathering up.” They also panted. Bradford said they’d developed this somewhat unique method of heat exchange due to their environment. They also shed like crazy, and Spanky was allergic to the downy filaments that floated everywhere belowdecks when they were hard at work.
“C’mon, Carl,” he said. “These apes and snipes are working together so well it turns my stomach.” There were grins at that. “I don’t think we need to keep starin’ at them to keep them away from each other’s throats.”
“I just don’t understand it,” Bashear commiserated. “Whatever happened to tradition? Where’s the pride? You’d almost think they like each other, to look at ’em get on so. Ain’t natural.”
Spanky chuckled. The old rivalry between the deck (apes) and engineering (snipes) divisions still existed, but it had been “tamed down” a little without the caustic presence of Dean Laney aboard. He’d been of the “old school,” in which duties were strictly defined in an almost labor union-like fashion. The Bosun wasn’t much different, but he’d adjusted to the new imperatives. Laney hadn’t. It hadn’t been so bad when Chief Donaghey had ridden herd on the man, but after Donaghey’s death, Laney became a tyrant. There just wasn’t room for that on something as small as Walker anymore. On this mission, Laney had remained behind to supervise the production of heavy industry-something his obnoxious personality was well suited for. And besides, the running-mostly-joke was that if somebody “accidentally” dropped something big and heavy on him, the world would be a better place.
In the meantime, the Lemurian apes and snipes on Walker got along much better. None of the ’Cats liked the Imperial term “Ape Folk,” even if, as far as anyone knew, they’d never seen an ape; they understood it was derogatory and condescending. In contrast, the “deck apes” didn’t mind that term at all. It was occupational… and almost fraternal. They embraced it just as the engineering divisions accepted the title of “snipes” in much the same way. There were still pranks and jokes, and a competitive spirit existed between them, but they’d all been through far too much together to lose sight of the fact that they were all on the same side, part of the same clan, living on the same Home. Spanky, who’d had a little college before joining the Navy as a mere recruit and rising as a “mustang,” was reminded of guys from different college fraternities who played on the same football team. In spite of his remarks to Carl Bashear-remarks expected of him-he liked it this way.
“Where’re we goin’?” Bashear asked as they left the repair detail to their work and moved aft.
“Something I gotta do, then I’ll go topside with you and have a look at that winch. You say it ain’t blowin’ steam?”
Carl shook his head. “Nope. Nothin’ blows steam around here ’cept the fellas now and then.” He shook his head. “That ain’t natural either. That gasket stuff Letts came up with works almost too good. No, there’s something else, and I gotta get it fixed. The Skipper wants Mr. Reynolds to fly tomorrow, or the next day, when we get underway.” He pointed in the general direction of land. “According to our charts, that thing’s not even supposed to be there. The Brit charts don’t show it either, for that matter, but they do show a lot of stuff a little farther along that ain’t right.” Bashear scratched his head. “So far, west of here, everything seems about the same. Nothing too out of the ordinary that different sea levels wouldn’t account for, other than the occasional volcanic island that ain’t where it’s supposed to be. What’s the deal with these atolls and stuff?”
Spanky shrugged. “Ask Mr. Bradford. He knows all that stuff. From what I gather though, these pissant desert islands and atolls pile up on old coral reefs or something. Kind of random. No reason they had to show up the same place they were ‘back home,’ since there was no real reason them other ones formed where they did. Just luck that the first coral pod-or whatever they are-took root where it did. The islands are in the same basic area, but no reason they should be exactly the same either.”
Bashear looked at him skeptically. “Well, either way, the Skipper wants Reynolds to fly.” He chuckled. “Now that he’s fixed all the holes in his plane. You heard one of the holes was ‘self-inflicted’?”
“I heard,” said Spanky, “and you ought to cut the kid some slack. Most of the holes weren’t self-inflicted and there were a lot of’em. All he had to shoot back with was a pistol, for Crissakes. So he got a little fixated on his target. Happens all the time. Just think how many observers prob’ly shot their own planes to pieces back in the Great War.” He grinned. “Think how many times those battlewagon boys blew their own observation planes over the side just in exercises, before the war! You get ’em in a real fight, they’d probably blast their own damn ship!”