Free Maelstrom by Taylor Anderson Page B

commander (by acclamation) of all Allied Military Forces, stood in the pilothouse, binoculars around his neck, waiting for “Spanky” to report on the engines. Raindrops pummeled the slightly convex foredeck below him, and ran from the freshly painted steel to course down the side. Behind him the newly overhauled blower roared reassuringly, and he felt a sense of calm begin to edge out the anxiety he felt about the expedition. The routine procedures he knew so well had much to do with that: all the sounds and shouted commands, the twitter of the bosun’s pipe. He was also encouraged just by the fact that they were finally getting underway. The expedition was his idea, and the mission they were on was crucial, but the time it had taken to prepare had cut deeply into the cushion he thought they had. He was glad to have his ship under him again, alive and straining for the open sea, but he was nervous about leaving all the same.
    The bridge talker, Seaman Fred Reynolds, spoke: “Engineering reports ready to get underway.”
    “Very well. Cast off the stern lines.” He nodded at Chief Quartermaster’s Mate Norman Kutas at the helm. “Left full rudder. Port engine ahead one-third.”
    “Left full rudder, port ahead one-third, aye.”
    With a juddering vibration, dirty water boiled under the port propeller guard and the cramped, rounded-vee-shaped stern eased slowly away from the pier. Matt stepped into the rain on the port bridge wing and glanced aft. Immediately, water began soaking his hair beneath his battered hat. When the stern was far enough from the pier, he called back to the helmsman: “Rudder amidships. Cast off the bowlines.” The orders were quickly relayed, and the human and Lemurian destroyermen on the fo’c’sle, already soaking wet, scampered to throw off the heavy ropes. “All astern, slow.” He moved back into the pilothouse and quickly dried his face and the back of his head with a towel while he watched the proceedings. Quite a few people lined the dock in spite of the weather, watching the amazing ship depart. Many of their hopes rested with him and the successful completion of their task.
    He noticed one person in particular standing with the furry, drenched Lemurians. Her small form already partially obscured by the deluge, he saw her sandy-brown hair hanging down in sodden strands. She raised a tentative hand. We’ll be back soon , he silently mouthed, knowing she couldn’t see, and he waved back at all the spectators, but one most of all. “We’ll be back soon,” he repeated aloud.
    “Sir?” asked Reynolds.
    “Nothing. Right standard rudder, all ahead one-third.”
    “Right standard rudder, all ahead one-third,” Kutas replied. “Recommend course two seven five.”
    “Make it so. Reynolds, get the sea and anchor detail out of the rain and pass the word for the bosun and exec to join me on the bridge. Spanky too.”
    “Aye, aye, Captain.”
     
    To Sandra Tucker, standing on the old fitting-out pier, the new, light gray paint covering the battered old destroyer couldn’t hide her many defects, but it did quickly blend with the driving rain. She felt a lump the size of her fist tighten in her chest as the ship grew ever more wraithlike and ethereal, and she wondered if she’d ever see it again. If she’d ever see Matthew Reddy again. She said a quick, fervent prayer for the ship and all those aboard her—and one in particular. With a sigh, she turned and melted into the throng and made her way through the dripping, awning-covered bazaar, back to her own duties at the hospital.
     
    Lieutenant Larry Dowden, Walker ’s executive officer, reached the bridge first, water running from the brim of his hat. Dowden was of average height and spare, but the young towheaded officer from Tennessee had stepped into his new job with energy and professionalism. He’d been a good choice to replace Lieutenant Ellis, Matt reflected once again, tossing him the towel. Soon afterward, Chief