At the Midway (78 page)

Oates wanted desperately to let Garrett know of the ominous discoloration in the water off his port beam.  The lookouts in the fighting masts could see it clearly.  But to the men on the launch, low in the water, it would be invisible.  The lookouts could not determine how close to the surface the coral reached, but all it needed was a bump to send their hopes up in a blast.  The captain could run up all the signal flags he wanted, but it would probably be futile.  Garrett would be too preoccupied to decipher their block patterns.  The only message he could convey was a double flash from the light on the bridge, to be used if Oates thought the ensign delayed firing too long.

Hart braced himself over the wireless key.  The battleship had swung out to starboard to avoid the reef, but he could still see the launch clearly.  He had so much coffee in him his body trembled, though his hand remained steadier than the improvised antenna swaying over the bridge, the replacement for the downed radio mast.  He wanted desperately for the strike to come off before last light.  The remaining searchlights could illuminate the torpedoes and target well enough, but coral would be almost invisible.  With only two bolts in their quiver, a premature detonation would be a disaster.

"Captain...."

"Yes, I see...."

The serpent was moving.

1850 Hours

"Damn!  Any other time it'd be poking its head up for all the world to see."

"She's an air-breather," Singleton called out over the engine noise.  "She'll be back up."

"But where--"

The answer pronounced itself dead ahead.  The creature had not shifted position, but merely flopped over.  She lifted her head and stared at the motor boat.

"Ready... ready....  Okay Doc!  Start the port torpedo!"

Singleton bellowed in pain as he reached out with the hook, the gunwale harsh against his flabby midriff.  The grappling hook staff, which had been fairly light when held at port arms, proved surprisingly heavy when extended full length.  Singleton howled again.  The muscles under his arm felt as though they were trying to jump through his skin.  He missed the switch twice before finding a way to rest the hook-end on the torpedo and drag it sideways.  Abruptly, the propeller began tossing up spray.  Amos cast off the line.

Instantly, the motor launch was pulled violently to port.  Garrett had to cut back almost to a dead stop before bringing her under control.

The loosed torpedo drew ahead.  So slowly that at first it seemed to make no progress.  The receiving masts on the pontoon leaned at a perilous angle.  Another couple inches and the torpedo would slip completely underwater, immersing the receiver and ruining the electrical leads. But when the creature made a short sideways move, the pontoon turned sluggishly upon its new course.

"Hart's got it!"

1859 Hours

Hart quickly reminded himself there were two steps to a course change, not just one.  After the torpedo bore on the creature he had to straighten the rudder, or else run the weapon in a circle.  This proved the trickiest part, because the signal switch turned clockwise only.  If he over-adjusted, he would have to go through most of the blades again before hitting the proper one.  Meantime, the torpedo would be slotting on the wrong course.

"Don't miss," said Oates.

Hart understood he was not merely stating the obvious.  He was making sure Hart realized only one try per weapon was possible.  If the torpedo missed, the propulsive pressure in the flask would be spent before it could be brought around for another attempt.

The dark torpedo was invisible from the bridge.  The white pontoon and the dual masts, however, could not be missed.

"She's dead-on," Oates whispered.

"Yes."  Hart hit the wireless key four times to straighten the rudder.

The captain made nervous sounds behind him.  The motor launch and torpedo were falling further away as the
Florida
swerved to avoid the shallows.  Hart had told him he was reasonably certain wireless control could be maintained over a distance of two thousand yards--possibly even further.  The problem was that you had to see the torpedo as well as the creature to know which way to turn it.

"Damn."

"What is it?"

"I told Garrett to open fire at forty yards.  Looks like he let go at a hundred."

"How close would you get to that thing in an open boat?  Besides, he needs to survive long enough to get off his second shot."

There was a bright flash.  A narrow plume rose high.  An instant later the explosion shook the bridge screen.

"The reef...."

1911 Hours

"Jesus!"

Garrett and the others ducked as pontoon fragments and chunks of coral rained down on them.  At that instant, what frightened them more than debris or the beast was the reef.  Garrett had had no idea they were so close.  They were in a minefield of coral.

He reached for the choke to slow the engine.

There was a thud.  The centerboard jumped beneath them.  The three men gaped in horror at the second torpedo.

There was an explosion--but not from the warhead.  A hissing spray of water shot up.

"The flask!" Singleton shouted in dismay.

One of the gaskets had broken.  Pressurized air that would have supplied power to the turbine engine instead created a powerful jet through the seam joining the flask to the immersion chamber.

Garrett started to throttle back--and was stopped when a hand clamped on his.  A hand that was very large and very black.

"What are you doing?  We have to stop!"  He tried to pull away, only to find his arm trapped in Amos' grip.  Toggling Garrett's wrist, he held up his hand for Singleton to see.

"Look at this tiny white hand.  You ever see a hand that small on a man?  You really a man, Garrett?  Or are you one of those women we read about, trying to do a man's job?"

Garrett tried an awkward roundhouse with his left, only to find himself being thrown away from the cockpit.  As he came round, Amos gave him a short, vicious jab.  The ensign stood frozen for an instant as blood gushed from his broken nose, then dropped backwards onto the planks.

"I'm going to chew me up a commissioned officer.  And long past due, at that."

As he stepped forward he caught a blow on the shoulder that caused him to yelp and jump back.  Singleton held the grappling hook in front of him.  Amos did not try to decipher what the doctor was blubbering about, but charged.  This time Singleton whipped the staff sideways, nearly taking Amos flush on the neck.

"Pretty spry, Methuselah," Amos gasped.

"Yes," the doctor said breathlessly.

Both were surprised by the doctor's prowess.  They also knew Amos could take the staff away from him, if he was willing to pay the price.

1915 Hours

After all the
Florida
had been through, it amazed the men in Number One that the turret could still swivel smoothly, the guns decline with massive ease.

"Look for the target, bearing Red Oh-Four--"

A gasp from the second pointer.

Pressed against his eyepiece, Beck exclaimed, "Sir!  This can't be right!  We're aiming at--"

A hard slap to the side of his head nearly knocked him out of his seat.  His earplugs went rattling across the deck.

1917 Hours

"Stay on with Central Station," Oates told his ordnance officer.  "If the launch turns towards us before firing her second torpedo, I want a full broadside in her direction.  We don't need a direct hit.  One close shell will set off the torpedo.  At least swamp her."

"Sir, do you have any idea what's happening?  Why would she turn on us?"

"I don't know," Oates lied.  He raised his Zeiss glass for a closer look at the mutiny Amos was staging on the motor launch.

"I should have known better," he told himself bitterly.

1917 Hours

"You'll hang for this," Garrett shouted, his voice made weird by blood backing through his nose.

"Too late, I've already been hanged."  Amos looked towards the spot where he'd last seen the creature.  It was gone.  Hastily swiveling his eyes, he found it over a hundred yards off the starboard bow.  Moving to deeper water.  It seemed to be angling towards the battleship.

"I got plenty to say and no time to say it."  Leering, Amos added, "What if I turned us back on the
Florida
?"

"Torpedo the
ship
?"

"That would say it all."

"They'd blow you out of the water.  Us."

"I'd be under the guns before they knew what was happening."

The plume from the flask began to die as the pressure faded.

"Your little bomb isn't worth shit, Doctor.  It doesn't have a brain. Contrary to popular wisdom, I do.
 
This is my ship, now.  I want you two off it."

"You're fucking crazy.  Why are you doing this?"

"
You
ask?  You heard me, off now.  Both of you can swim, can't you?  Well, take those lifesavers off the sternpost.  Look lively!  Keep the marbles rolling!"

Garrett sprang up.  Parrying his fists, Amos doubled him with a shot to the stomach, then tossed him over the side.  He nearly went over himself as Singleton brought the staff down on his back.  He slipped the next blow and yanked the grappling hook out of the doctor's hands.  Grabbing him by the shirt, he "
oofed
" as he tried to toss him the same way he'd done Garrett.  But the old man was too heavy, so he gave him a stiff push and sent him over.

Nursing his bruises, Amos stumbled aft, raised the lifesavers off the post, and threw them at the two heads bobbing and gasping in his wake.  "They'll blow you out of the water!" he thought he heard Garrett shout.  His nose twitched at the smoky fumes rising from the engine.  "Last me one round longer," he prayed.

He armed the torpedo with the grappling hook, then stepped into the cockpit and gunned the boat ahead.

1920 Hours

"No, not yet," Oates said tentatively.  "He's not coming straight at us.  It's the serpent coming on.  Ring back two-thirds!"

"Back two-thirds, sir!"

Oates went to the speaking tubes and blew into one of them.  "Take us down to sixty revolutions, then back up for ten knots!" 

"Sixty revolutions, aye sir!" came the hollow
-
sounding response.

Turning to the ordnance officer, he said, "We'll give him some space.  He may be just running.  Either way, you'll have a target.  The serpent's coming after us, again.  You'll have to try one of your miracle point
-
blank shots.  I'll give you a broadside when the time comes."

Which'll be soon
, the ordnance officer's expression said.  He nodded grimly.  The eight
-
inch blast that had brought down the green-striped creature had been luck of the highest order.  He was doubtful they could repeat it.

"I don't suppose there's anything you can do," the captain asked, going to the front of the pilot house.

Hart shook his head.  "We were forced to power the rudders off the same batteries as the receivers.  Which means I can juggle her some.  But the launch's rudder is a lot bigger and she's under full power."

Oates grunted.  He gave no thought to stopping and picking up Singleton and the ensign.  His attention was centered on the launch and the serpent.

The creature seemed not to have been alarmed by the torpedo exploding against the reef.  It was bearing in on them casually, almost thoughtfully.  Trying to decide where to begin nibbling, Oates imagined.

The motor launch streaked north.  If the steward was in a warlike mood, he was either moving to intercept the creature or coming about to attack the ship.  Oates focused his glasses on the cockpit in an attempt to get a better look at the man's face.  Behind Amos the horizon was soft and pink.  Oates registered storm clouds at the back of his mind.

Pretty soon, he would have to come hard to starboard in order to present a broadside.  Only one question remained:  Who would be the target?

"Hart, if the launch turns towards us I want you to do a lot of juggling with that switch of yours.  It might help."

Hart nodded doubtfully.

1920 Hours

Amos could feel the captain's eyes on him.

"Son of a bitch is wondering what I'll do," he chuckled desperately.

There was nothing left to go back to.  The Navy had been his life.  His family had been the files.  And now he was in disgrace.

He was caught between two ideas.  If he wasn't a sailor
-
-
what was he?  Just another poor Negro, out of work and out of luck.  He could not return to the Second Country, the land of the black man.  Its aimless days and menial labor.  He'd been at sea too long.  In mind and heart, he'd severed himself from his race.