The Air Corps in general and the vaunted P-40s in particular had garnered a poor reputation among the destroyermen as they’d watched them swatted from the sky by the nimble Jap “Zeros.” Ben still argued that those same, possibly preventable air attacks, had ultimately pared away the P-40s in the Philippines before their pilots ever really had a chance to learn to use the better, heavier E models. He often pointed to the successes of the AVG B models in China to prove there’d been nothing wrong with the planes that a little practice couldn’t cure. He clearly loved the things, and to have them back was the greatest reward he could possibly receive for all his service to date. To lose them now might actually destroy him.
To everyone else, and certainly to Ben as well, the planes represented an insurmountable leap ahead that their enemies couldn’t hope to match. Of the twenty-eight planes on board, Ben estimated they could assemble at least eighteen, maybe twenty. Through salvage and spares, they’d have the parts to keep them going for some time, but they would inevitably lose some to training accidents, maintenance foul-ups, and-to Russ-the simple quirky, unexplainable disasters that eventually befell all extraordinarily complicated equipment. Hell, what about those stupid MK-15 torpedoes? They would have to husband the planes that survived, cherish them, and treat them like the temperamental thoroughbred stallions they were-lavish them with attention and keep them in tip-top shape. Ride Them easy, he thought with growing confidence-and a growing anxiety similar to Ben’s-because when the gate pops open, they’re liable to win the war.
“S’okay, Mr. Mallory,” Russ said gently as the rumble under the hull died away. “Maybe I’m just a jumped-up torpedoman, but I’ve done this sort of thing before. We’ll get your toys out for you, me an’ this old rust bucket. Then me and Tolson ’ll be back in the Navy war. You kick their heads off from the air, will ya?”
“You… you think we’ve made it?” Ben asked cautiously, hushed.
Russ released his own white-knuckle hold on the wheel, stretched his fingers, and clasped it again more loosely. “Yep, I think we have.” He actually giggled. “God help me, I think we have.” He sighed and turned to Monk. “Send to Tolson and the salvage squadron: ‘Expect company for dinner, and it better be good.’ Then get back here as quick as you can. We’ll be in the clear in a few minutes, and I think it’s time your ‘Air Snipe’ ass learned to handle your ‘new’ ship.” He grinned at Monk’s expression. “Hey, Mikey, don’t look at me like that! I already have a ship, and she’s a lot prettier too! You want me to give her to Laney?”
“Hell, no!” Monk exclaimed. “I just wasn’t expecting it! Imagine, me with my own ship!” He still looked stunned, and Russ and Ben both laughed. “Hard to imagine a lot of things these days,” Russ agreed. “Now run along and send that message!” He paused. “Oh, and send to Tolson to have an extra set of colors, Stars and Stripes, sent across as soon as we arrive. There’s nothing left of the flags aboard here, and Santa Catalina ’s been without one for far too long.”
CHAPTER 22
Yap Island (Shikarrak)
D ennis Silva was snoring loudly in the gray half-light of dawn. Sometime during the night, they’d decided the shiksak activity below had begun to taper off, and he’d produced a bottle of his reserved prize “medicinal” rum to celebrate. He’d shared-a little-and the bizarre phenomenon they experienced later, after he was liberally medicated, had blended into a twisted dream in which their boat was sailing through the air above the roaring rapids of a boundless river. Even now, as consciousness threatened, he remembered that the roar had been pretty loud, and somehow their little boat had become Walker from time to time. He was pretty sure Spanky had “blown tubes” at least once, judging by the sooty taste in his mouth. The dream was a hoot, even if the ride was a little bumpy. The circumstances were strange and maybe even ominous, but that wasn’t the point. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he’d been singing, and he imagined he’d been particularly witty when he ridiculed Rajendra for his girlish squeaks of alarm.
In any event, for once Silva wasn’t already fully awake before everyone else. The others had endured a long, tense, “unmedicated” night that hadn’t been entertaining in any way, and all except Rebecca Anne McDonald were still asleep after their ordeal, snoring under this momentous, utterly changed dawn.
“Mr. Silva,” Rebecca whispered, again prodding him disapprovingly with her toe. “Do wake up; something is eating our ropes.” She’d barely slept at all, staring down, trying to see what was happening during the seemingly endless, terrifying night. Long after the roar had passed, but before the meager light revealed a dark, diminutive shape near the falls, she’d heard gnawing sounds coming from the aft tackle.
“Mr. Silva!”
Dennis’s good eye popped open, and seeing Rebecca in the gloom, he immediately groped for his eyepatch. Oddly, despite his bizarre behavior in most respects, he didn’t like it when his “little sister” saw the gnarled, sunken socket where his left eye had been. His next priority was Truelove’s long-barreled pistol tucked in his rope belt.
“Umm?” he demanded groggily.
“The aft tackle. The falls.”
“What’s wrong with ’em?” he managed thickly.
Rebecca sighed exasperatedly. “Something is there, chewing on them!”
Silva twisted to look. “I’ll be… derned. You’re right!” He squinted. “Silly bastard’s gonna drop us on the water-I mean the ground! Hey, there, you little freak!” he growled menacingly, “get away from there, or I’ll blow your goddamn head off!” With his left hand, he pitched the empty rum bottle at the thing.
“Goddamn! Goddamn!” shrieked the creature, dodging the bottle and scampering up into the lower branches above.
“It spoke!” Rebecca exclaimed, shocked.
“Yeah,” Silva admitted, trying to draw a bead on the ill-defined shape above. “Sounds kinda like a parrot, don’t he? You know parrots?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Rebecca admitted. “The Founders carried some and they have quite devastated the indigenous songbird populations of New Britain. Horrid, obnoxious creatures!”
“Well, let’s see if they can be ate,” Silva murmured.
“Don’t you dare!” Rebecca objected. “It may be more than a strange parrot! What if it’s like Lawrence?”
“Not like Lawrence,” the Tagranesi proclaimed disgustedly, awakening to the voices and quickly grasping the situation. There was little trace of sleep in his voice. “They are annoying ’ests, and they can ’e ate. Tasty too.”
“Well, then!” Dennis said, aiming at the dark shape more carefully. Over the last few days, they’d supplemented their rations with various arboreal denizens. It often sparked a race between them (usually Lelaa on a rope) and their native “neighbors” to retrieve the fallen creatures, and of course if any shiksaks were nearby, they didn’t want to draw their attention by leaving food beneath the boat. There was nothing they could do about their waste, and that was bad enough. Shooting and eating their “neighbors” was a diversion from the monotony of their situation if nothing else, and it kept them from digging too deeply into their increasingly limited supplies.
“No!” Rebecca exclaimed, glancing darkly at Lawrence.
“No! No! Goddamn!” came a shrill, indignant cry from above.
Silva shrugged. “Well, whatever the little bugger is, he talks as good as you, Larry.” He looked at Rebecca. “He’s gotta leave off chewin’ on our rope, though.”
The others in the suspended boat began to stir.
“What’s happening?” Sandra asked. “Is it over?”
Despite her bedraggled state, Silva couldn’t suppress a thrill at the sight of her pretty, morning face. He physically shook himself. Damn! He told himself. Don’T even Think like That! It was hard not to after all this time. He’d even occasionally caught himself looking speculatively at Sister Audry. She was a damn fine-looking gal, after all. Such a waste… He shook himself again.