Free Gus Openshaw's Whale-Killing Journal by Keith Thomson Page A

the telescope before giving orders to the crew to go after him. I
didn’t need the telescope though. I’d already gotten the answer
from the bile flooding every single one of my cells.
On my command of “Get the bastard!” Flarq and
Thesaurus shot to the bow to lower our two motor launches
that’d serve as whaleboats—each one was packed with enough
harpoons for ten blubbery bastards, all sharpened and shined to
the point he’d see the reflection of his ugly whale face as the iron
bore into him.

Moses and I, who would join them in the whaleboats in
a few seconds, lowered the S-1 exploding robot squid into the
water. A keypunch on the remote control later, it was rocketing
towards the pod.

Nelson and Duq ran to the howitzers, our first line of
defense should Dickhead try to ram us again.
As for George, I told him to stay atop the bridge on
lookout duty. I wanted him the crap out of the way. I’d have
heaved him overboard but for fear he’d get tangled in the rudder.
“But I already sighted the whale,” he protested.
“In case we lose sight of him,” I told him. He returned
his attention to sea, with an air of pride at the importance of his
assignment.

Seated in the bow of the first whaleboat, Thesaurus
used a harpoon to signal he was ready. The waning sun gave it
the appearance of a lighting bolt in his strong arm. Within a
couple minutes, he’d be close enough to the bastard to let fly!
Even though I’d never had a blubberburger, my mouth watered
at Duq’s suggestion of them for supper. Each tick of the clock
seemed like an hour.

“Big problem,” shouted George from atop the bridge.
“What did you do now?” I asked him.

He pointed aft at the Tortolan battleship cruising our
way with her state-of-the-art missile launchers. Unless we took
immediate evasive action, she’d have us for supper.
    P.S. Here’s a scrimshaw by
Flarq of one of the smaller
members of Dickhead’s
pod. If Weight Watchers did
advertising directed to whales,
this one would be the “After”
to the bastard’s “Before.”

Thursday, 22 July 2004 8:40 PM
The Tortolan Missile Crisis
    “Battleship” wasn’t as intimidating as it sounds. After the
Korean War, the Tortolans had been PAID $100,000 to take her
off the U.S. Navy’s hands, saving America the much bigger cost
of scrapping the decommissioned dinosaur. The intimidating
part was the dinosaur-sized, state-of-the-art missile launchers now
glistening in the setting sun on her bow.
Any doubt we had about whether the launchers could
reach us yet was settled when a puff of smoke materialized on
her deck. A moment later a blur in the shape of a rocket came
screaming our way, and a moment after that there was a sound
compared to which two trains crashing would’ve been merely a
dinner bell. And that was nothing compared to the explosion
on our stern deck—I should say, what used to be our stern deck.
The entire brig reared up like a mustang, and everything that
wasn’t tied down flew aft—deck furniture, papers, tackle, bits of
rope, Bob the rat (I reached out and caught him as if I was a first
baseman).

Worse, it seemed, the spooked pod fled. There’d be no
more whaling today. The issue though was now whether there’d
be any more living.

Then the bow thumped back onto the sea.
“The engines are fine!” called an incredulous Flarq from
the bridge.

We were still motoring forward. The rest of the crew,
though, was staring back in horror at the sight of our rudder,
bobbing in our wake, looking like a giant pork rind.
Then a second puff of smoke formed on the battleship,
and another missile hollered our way. I pocketed Bob and
grabbed onto the starboard rail so tight it occurred to me my
fingers might never uncurl.

The missile splashed—and do I ever mean splashed—a
hundred yards short of us. The deck got washed over (as this
meant Duq and George got baths, not a totally bad thing), plus
we felt some concussion as