Free At the Midway by J. Clayton Rogers Page A

they heard the breech of the gun directly above them slam shut.  The gun crew on the upper tier had once again beaten Davis' team to the loading.  With competition between gun crews so fierce, this was a matter of some importance even with a potential enemy on top of them.
    The gun-layers murmured as they worked the dual hand wheels, the worm gears putting in motion a combination of gears to the lower left of the six-incher, which in turn operated the cam, which in turn aimed the gun.  Captain Oates was marking a parallel course to the schooner, as though he had in mind a Nelsonian broadside.  Yet the command box stubbornly remained at STAND BY.
    "She's got no name on her," one of the gun-strikers said in a perplexed tone.
    Davis leaned forward.  Sure enough--no quarterboard.  Neither did she fly an identifying flag or pennant.  She could be registered on the moon, for all they knew.
    The desire to let loose with a round was nearly overwhelming.  Davis' finger touched the trigger.  It felt remarkably like the trigger of a sporting rifle.
    Now... if someone would only give the command….
    His finger nestled tightly in the deadly curl.  A half-inch plunge would ignite the gun.  He pressed his free hand against the wall to steady himself as Oates maintained the turn.  Without quite realizing it, Davis had already depressed the trigger a quarter of an inch.
     
    For a few minutes the Florida and the mystery ship ran parallel to each other.  Grabbing his megaphone, Captain Oates stood outside and shouted:
    "Ahoy!  You on the schooner!  Are you in distress?"
    No response.
    "Ahoy!  Schooner!  Identify yourself!  Do you need help?"
    Grissom and the senior watch officer chased after the captain as he dashed from the bridge.  A tactful way had to be found to tell Oates his pants were unbuttoned, his underwear hanging out.  But the captain's attention was glued to the schooner.  The exec could not catch his eye.
    The strange ship captivated Oates.  Who would dare sail it blindly through the mightiest fleet in the Western Hemisphere, disregarding all the rules--the common courtesy of the sea--at their own peril?
    " Ahoy ! Captain of the schooner! Show yourself!"
    Midshipman Davis heard the captain bellowing as he raced past his station.  He watched as Oates huffed down the deck in his thick wool socks, his long johns flapping out the back of his trousers like a pair of deflated water wings.
    "What's up?" one of the gunners asked him.
    "We're not shooting, that's all I know," Davis sighed.  He did not bother putting his hand back over the trigger, but leaned back and folded his arms in disgust.
    By the time Oates had run the length of the ship, he was nearly faint.  For a few moments he stared incredulously at the schooner.  How had she pulled so far ahead?  Then he realized the illusion of what he was seeing.  She was not pulling ahead, but away.  It was a result of the course he himself had set.  The Florida had begun to go in a circle.
    There was a loud snap overhead and he jumped back with a shout.
    Damn. It was the flag!  He was standing under the large ensign at the bow.
    He glanced around to see if anyone had observed his reaction and found his exec and the senior officer of the watch staring straight at him.
    "Sir... your pants are down," said Grissom.
    The composure Oates had lost while pursuing the schooner abruptly returned.  Well... there.  My pants are down.  By Godfrey, I must be a hell of a sight.  With the waist of the trousers halfway down his buttocks, the wonder of it was not that he'd not noticed, but that he had not fallen flat.
    "Thank you," he said.  With great dignity, he drew his pants up, packing his long johns in with a couple of deep shoveling sweeps of his hands.
    "Uh... where's Dr. Singleton?"
    Grissom's response was cut off by a shout from the watch officer.
    The world suddenly exploded with light.
    "The Minnesota ."
    Deciding that he'd swung out far enough to avoid