Rising Tides (31 page)

“Young bull,” Silva opined through gritted teeth as he reslung his weapon and took up his rope again. “Bet he don’t get to be an
old
bull. Kinda sets a fella back, thinkin’ ’bout all the times he’s acted the same damn way.” He gasped and heaved in time with the others. “Whoo-ee! Liber-tee! Where’s the grub? Where’s the broads?”

The raucous sounds of wildlife grew, birds erupted from the grass, the trees, everywhere, swirling madly and densely enough to create a kind of shade. Small shapes scampered in all directions to the extent that tripping became a concern. It was as if they somehow knew the full infestation was finally at hand. Even Rajendra quieted his objections and laid to with a will. It was late afternoon when, exhausted, panting, they finally placed the boat between the two trees they’d chosen, more by size, direction, and proximity than anything else. They rested briefly, gulping the rum-tinged water Brassey shared out with a tin cup. They’d already laid in plenty of water, and most of Silva’s surviving “prize” rum he’d taken during their escape from Billingsley had gone to purify it into a kind of grog. Most, but not all. There were still medicinal purposes to consider. They didn’t have a moment to lose, but they
had
to rest a little before they attempted their next pair of tasks. A misstep now or a mishandled line would doom them all.

“Are you ready for this?” Sandra finally asked.

Captain Lelaa nodded, looking at the trees, ears twitching appraisal. “I have been climbing masts since I was born,” she said confidently. “These ‘trunks’ will be simpler.”

“Them double-block falls are kinda heavy—an’ you gotta make sure they don’t get tangled up,” Silva fussed. When they’d escaped, they unhooked the falls, thinking at least the rope might be handy. Now the heavy block-and-tackle arrangement might prove their salvation. They never could have built a set in time.

Lelaa practically sneered at Silva. “Mind your own business. Just keep those creatures up there away from me,” she said. The creatures in question, a wild variety perched high in the tree’s broad canopy above, had stopped squalling and now peered sullenly down at them.

Silva nodded, and setting down the Doom Whomper, he selected a loaded musket from within the boat. “You got it, Cap’n.”

“What can I do to help?” Sister Audry asked, still somewhat breathless.

“Nothin’ right now. Might not have to do anything a’tall ’til you climb aboard,” Dennis answered, “unless you want to try your hand at shootin’?”

Sister Audry shook her head. She had no experience with firearms of any sort. She still looked concerned. “But the boat is so heavy! How will we lift it up there?”

“A double-block rig’ll let you lift four times the weight as usual. I can hoist a thousand pounds easy as peein’ with that rig . . . if you’ll ’scuse me for sayin’ so.” He paused. “Just take my word for it. Five big fellas, two strong ladies—countin’ the squirt—a ’Cat that’s prob’ly stronger than me, and a fuzzy, stripey lizard—I figger we can lift close to twice what that damn boat weighs. We oughta be able to manage without you and Mr. Cook.” He looked around. “Say, where’s that stripey lizard, anyway?”

Lawrence reappeared, trotting carefully around the kudzu with something almost as large as he was slung on his back. As he drew near, Sister Audry wrinkled her nose and Rebecca scolded, “What is that vile, revolting stench?”

Lawrence flung his burden down unapologetically, and Silva stooped to examine it.

“Yuk,” Dennis said. “What the hell’s that?”

“The scent glands o’ that shiksak us killed,” he said. There was a little blood around his mouth—he’d apparently paused long enough for a quick meal while he hacked the reeking things off with his cutlass.

“Aggh, they stink!” Silva exclaimed as the full force of the stench hit him. The glands were little more than pebbly, scaly slits in two large, dark patches of skin. “How’s that work?” he wondered aloud. “I seen deer tarsals an’ such, but you’d think a sea monster wouldn’t do that.”

“They aren’t sea ’onsters on land,” Lawrence pointed out.

“Well . . . what are you gonna do with ’em? Roll around on ’em an’ pretend to be one?”

Lawrence actually seemed to consider it before shaking his head. “He’ig ’ull,” he said.

“Bull?”

“Yess. His scent keeph others a’ay. I tie these to trees, other ’ulls, at least, stay a’ay.”

That made sense. Dennis had been a little worried about that. Big as these trees were, their roots weren’t all that deep. He figured a really big shiksak might knock one over if he decided to whack on it.

“Good thinkin’, twerp. Course, now you got that stink all over you, where are you gonna stay?”

“He can stay with us,” Lelaa snapped, starting her climb. “If I can stand your stink, I can learn to put up with his.”

For the first time since they’d been marooned on Yap Island, Dennis Silva heard Rebecca’s sweet, unfettered laugh. He grinned. “I guess I am gettin’ a little ripe,” he confessed, “but with mucho respecto, Cap’n, you smell kinda’ like a hard-used hairball.”

Lelaa snorted and scampered up the tree. About forty feet up, still short of the lower canopy, she stopped and began expertly rigging a seizing around the trunk. Something quick and leathery, with what looked like gliding wings stretched between its front and back legs, lunged down at her. Rajendra’s musket flared, and light, fleshy bark sprayed at the creature’s face. Never stopping, it leaped over their heads with a shrill cry, arrested its gliding fall on their other tree about fifty feet away, then raced into its darkening bower of leaves.

“Missed!” Silva said grandly, laying his musket against the boat and retrieving the Doom Whomper in case anything large chose to investigate the noise of the shot.

“So?” Rajendra said hotly. “I did my job!”

“Yeah,” Dennis replied, looking back at the clearing, “about as well as usual. Half-assed. Spoiled
my
shot.”

“Boys!” Sandra insisted, steel in her voice. “You
will
stop baiting each other and cooperate!” She knew she wasn’t being quite fair to Rajendra. Silva had started it—as usual—but erratic as Silva sometimes was, he was a lot steadier than Rajendra. For Rebecca’s sake, she wouldn’t single him out. She was “playing favorites” and knew it, but Rajendra had proven time and again, once that very day, that her control over him was tenuous. He might be loyal to the princess, but not to the group, and his judgment had always been questionable. Silva couldn’t be controlled at all, except through his loyalty to her and Rebecca, but the group as a whole was “under his protection,” as he saw it. Also, his survival judgment might sometimes be extreme and disproportionate, but it had a good record of success. The last thing they needed right then was for him to go into one of his infamous sulks.

Dennis Silva actually thrived on adversity and Sandra suddenly realized that in that sense he was a lot like Matt. Silva was over the top, where Matt was thoughtful—unless he lost his temper—but like it or not, their survival depended on the big gunner’s mate, and for all their sakes, even Rajendra’s, “over the top” was okay with Sandra.

Lelaa finished her knot and hooked on, then slid down the trunk, straightening the tackle as she went. On the ground, she hooked the bottom block onto the eyebolt at the boat’s bow, leaving the fall rope dangling. She scooped up the second tackle and went up the next tree.

“Oh, please do hurry,” Rebecca pleaded. “The sun is almost set!” It was true. The sun was falling rapidly now, as usual, and the trees and the clearing behind them were filling with gloom. Menacing shapes crashed about, and other creatures, much like bats—maybe they
were
bats—had joined the swirling birds.

“I shall, Your Highness,” Lelaa assured her patiently. As before, she quickly finished her chore, with no distractions from above this time, and scrabbled her way to the ground.

“How we gonna do this, Cap’n?” Silva asked. “One end at a time, or climb in and try to lift her from inside?”

Lelaa glanced at Abel, alert and listening, but virtually helpless in the boat. “It will be dangerous either way, and from within, it will be more so. That is how it must be done, however. We will add weight that we must also lift, but some cannot climb. Besides, if we remove the provisions from the boat—which we must to lift it one end at a time—we will then have to hoist them aboard as well.” She looked around at the twilight. “We must risk a quick ascent or we will be at this for hours. I do not think we have the time.”

“That’s it, then,” Silva said. “Ever’body aboard!”

“This is madness!” Rajendra stated. “We would all be safer to lift from the ground!”

“Captain Rajendra,” Lelaa said ominously, “we have worked together despite our differences, but do not imagine those differences do not still exist. You really
must
cease your constant objections and observe the obvious. Add to my earlier argument that we cannot secure the down-hauls within the boat if we raise it from the ground. Where would you have us secure them? To the trees here at this level, where any passing creature might gnaw them in two? All aboard.”

Rajendra couldn’t fault Lelaa’s logic, and whereas Silva had promised not to “hurt” him, Lelaa had made no such pledge. She had simply swallowed her anger and done as she had to. Her reminder of a possible reckoning was probably more intimidating than Silva’s harangues because it was the first she’d made in a long time, and she also had a more untainted claim on his honor as far as he was concerned. Besides, he harbored a real, secret . . . racial . . . fear of the physically diminutive but powerful—alien—Lemurian captain. He made no more objections.

Working together creditably enough—despite their differences, most of the “muscle” were seamen after all—they slowly, carefully hoisted the battered longboat into the sky between the two trees. There was a bizarre unreality about the whole situation that escaped none of them, but it was indeed their only chance. As the final rays of the sun surrendered to the sea, they saw the water beyond the trees, within the breakers, almost working with humping, splashing shapes, eerily void of color until they gained the shore, and then only briefly until they absorbed the darkening shades of their new surroundings. About thirty feet above the ground—high enough, they hoped—they secured the down-hauls to cleats on the boat’s gunwales. Then they sat quietly, staring at the starlit transformation of the island they’d learned to hate but of necessity called home.

“God a’mighty,” Silva whispered. “It’s like you threw the manhole cover off a sewer an’ looked down on a million man-eatin’ pollywogs swarmin’ in there.”

As usual, he was exaggerating, but not by much. Lawrence had been right. Evidently, they’d made it just in time. They never would have survived another night on the ground. The shiksaks had come to Yap.

“It’s a kind of hell,” Rebecca said, and Sister Audry drew her close.

“How long will it last, Lawrence?” Sandra asked, also whispering. It seemed appropriate. All the creatures on the island, in the trees, had gone silent except for the bellowing, grunting, roaring shiksaks themselves.

“I don’t recall,” Lawrence hissed back. “I stayed in the trees, hungry, thirsty. . . . I don’t know. Long days and nights.”

CHAPTER 19

Talaud Island

I
rvin Laumer leaned on the coaming of S-19’s squat conn tower and cast a suspicious eye toward the brooding volcano that increasingly inhabited the expedition’s thoughts. Nobody trusted it, and everyone felt convinced it was “up” to something, but the morning had dawned on a beautiful day, the kind that scoured away stress and fear with its simple charm alone. A brisk, cooling breeze, almost magically free of humidity, stirred the tree fronds and rippled the lagoon. High, wispy clouds moved across an otherwise brilliantly blue sky. The mountain near the center of the island seemed to have simmered down. Only the slightest trace of steam vented from the high, distant peak, and for once, its flanks weren’t shrouded with mist and the workers could see the scars of its recent tantrums. The ground still moved, but not with the violent, jolting shudder it had for many days; now it was more like a steady, sullen grumble than anything else Irvin could compare it to.

“I think we’ll have her refloated today,” Tex Sheider predicted optimistically, appearing beside him. The shorter man scratched his nose with a kinked piece of wire, the braided insulation charred.

The day had clearly affected the man’s mood, but he might be right, Irvin thought. “Technically, S-19’s been ‘refloated’ for weeks now,” he pointed out. “Ever since the basin filled up.”

“Yeah, but I meant floating
free
,” Tex explained. Irvin nodded. He’d known what he meant. He gazed out at USS
Toolbox
, securely moored in the lagoon. A pair of boats they’d lashed together with a flat deck between them, like a catamaran, was pulling for the beach laden with the big scooplike device they’d fashioned to dredge the sub clear of the sand. The scoop would be dropped near the submarine, and
Toolbox
would drag it into the lagoon with a pair of reinforced capstans operated by nearly her entire crew. A messenger line marked the scoop’s position, and when it reached a floating platform, the scoop was hoisted and laid back upon the deck of the twin boats. The thing was a stone bitch to row, and it was hard work, especially against the wind like today, but the crews that rotated the duty didn’t seem to mind that much. They were proud that their labor revealed the most measureable sign of progress toward releasing the sub from the beach. Irvin was proud of them, and by his estimate they were nearly done.

They could probably get the sub out now, by fending off aft and pulling her out nose first, but it would be dangerous work. The spiderlobsters had returned the night before, and they had no idea if any remained in the basin or not. The scary-looking half-skinny-lobsterhalf-spider critters weren’t the menace they’d been when they first appeared. Now that the crew knew they couldn’t climb up on the boat, when they’d come back a few times after the first terrifying battles, most of the crew on the shore simply took refuge on the sub. This time, they’d contented themselves with shooting a few that scuttled around on the beach, tearing at equipment, or some that seemed intent on wrecking the little “fitting-out pier” that Carpenter’s Mate Sid Franks was working on. They needed the pier to finish preparing the boat for sea once they got her loose. Even now, ’Cats were boiling spider-lobster tails for lunch, and savory smells reached Irvin’s nose now and then. The creatures had changed from terror to treat. They were still dangerous in the water, though, and the jet of seawater they “spat” could easily knock an exposed worker into the sea. It would take
very
exposed workers, standing in water up to their knees on the stern of the boat, to protect her delicate screws. Better to let the dredge handle it.

Irvin saw Franks wave at him from the pier, and he waved back. Franks and a detail were planking it now. If all went well, they might have S-19 free of her enclosure before nightfall. Once that was achieved, they’d inch her toward the pier with her electric motors, tie her up, and begin final fitting-out for their long-overdue and much-yearned-for departure. They might even get the port diesel up and running before they set out, but Irvin didn’t consider it a priority compared to so many other ongoing projects. They had nearly a full load of fuel and the starboard engine ran fine, with every apparent intention of continuing to do so. Right now, it was a matter of “okay, propulsion works well enough, let’s concentrate on what we need that doesn’t work at all”—like sonar, comm, the stove, the crew’s head, etc.

It would be nice to have the port diesel because, unlike newer boats that used four big engines just to charge their batteries, and had electric motors for all propulsion, S-19 cruised faster and more efficiently on the surface in direct drive. With her starboard engine in direct drive, she could still generate enough electricity to run the port motor, but the trip to Maa-ni-la would take longer, and with only two-thirds of her batteries after that long-ago depth charging, they wouldn’t have much electrical reserve.

Still, Irvin Laumer didn’t consider the port engine as important as getting the boat away from Talaud Island as fast as he could. Talaud was a perilous place, full of dangerous creatures, and if, on days like today, the dangers felt more remote, just a little dimmer, that damn volcano always seemed ready to focus them considerably. As quiescent as it was now, it
always
rumbled a little, so no one was about to forget it entirely. Besides, Laumer wanted back in the war. He wanted back among the men who’d have to consider him an officer of considerable resourcefulness now. An equal. He’d been set an almost insurmountable task, and he was finally on the verge of accomplishing it. Every day that passed was another opportunity for his success to slip away.

It
was
a pretty day, though, and even Irvin wasn’t immune. The labor was strenuous, but it was good work with demonstrable results. There was a general feeling of accomplishment and a satisfaction that, hard as things had been, they were almost done. The dangerous chore of bringing fresh water from the interior, mixing it with seep distilled aboard
Toolbox
, and stowing it on the sub was complete. The even more hazardous task of laying in fresh provisions was almost done as well, and meat and fish were drying under several sheds on the beach. A work party was even mixing paint so they could “doll the old boat up a little” before she was “recommissioned” into this new United States Navy.

“Those tails are starting to smell good,” Irvin said. He glanced at his watch. “We’ll call all hands ashore to lunch in fifteen minutes. Make sure plenty goes out to
Toolbox
.”

Tex nodded. He’d emerged as Laumer’s de facto exec, even though he’d only been a radioman before. He had the aptitude, organizational skills, personality, and frankly, stamina for the job. Also, since S-19’s radio would never work again, aside from his work on the electrical systems and a better wireless transmitter than Captain Reddy had been able to supply them with, he’d just stepped into the role. He knew the boat as well as Irvin did by now, and he could lead.

“Aye, aye, sir,” he replied. “I’ll announce lunch with the collision alarm!” he said.

“I thought it didn’t work.”

“It will now,” Tex said, grinning.

Irvin grinned too. He didn’t even ask what Tex had done to fix it. It might have been a loose wire or a corroded connection. They’d all gained a greater respect for the boat they’d been repairing than they’d ever had before. She was old and ridiculously obsolete, but she was a tough old girl, and most of her problems stemmed from age and the neglect she’d suffered since being stranded. “Carry on,” Irvin said.

Tex was about to descend the ladder into the control room when the distant mountain emitted a great, rolling, cacophonous belch, followed by an earsplitting roar.

Stunned, Irvin noticed that ’Cats on the pier had already begun reacting to something they saw in the direction of the mountain, even as the terrible blast buffeted them. He turned and looked for himself. The sky to the south was black, except for a massive, roiling, gray cloud—headed right at them.

“Sound ‘collision,’ ‘general quarters,’ or whatever you can that’s loud enough to hear!” he shouted. His voice seemed small, far away. He turned toward the workers on the shore and on the pier, waving his arms over his head and yelling as loud as he could: “All hands! In the boat! Drop whatever you’re doing and
get in The boat
!” Sid Franks saw him, whether he heard him or not, and began shoving ’Cats off the pier in the direction of the submarine. Many were too stunned to move, fixated with horror. This was not another ash fall like they’d seen before; this was a dense, boiling,
wall
of ash, thundering toward them at an impossible speed. Irvin jumped down on the deck and raced across the forward gangplank that connected the boat to shore. As soon as he left it, he couldn’t hear any of the alarms Tex had lit off on the sub.

He ran among the cooks and other work details on shore, rounding them up and gesturing at the sub. A new roar began to grow, different from the first but no less terrifying. His vision was growing dim. For an instant, he was alone. Midshipman Hardee grabbed his sleeve, tugging him toward the boat. His mouth was moving, but he made no discernible sound. Irvin looked around, saw ’Cats sprinting toward them from the pier, but everyone else was scampering across the gangplanks, tails high in terror, and disappearing down every open hatch. He let Hardee pull him along and soon they were both running. The gangplank bounced beneath their feet and they paused a moment while those in front waited to drop down the hatch. To the north, the day still seemed as before: a clear, almost cool blue sky, filled with patchy clouds. Turning to the south, they saw that the ash cloud, or whatever it was, had consumed the island. It was nearly upon them. Hardee got his attention; the hatch was clear. Irvin shoved Hardee ahead of him, then dropped down into the packed, sweltering control room.

“Franks and his detail are still outside,” he gasped, surprised that he could suddenly hear himself. The roar was still immense, but muted now.

“Clear the control room!” Tex bellowed. “Fore and aft, off you go! Maneuvering watch, stand by your stations,” he added. Just in case.

“Seal the boat, all but the forward hatch!” Irvin shouted. “That’s where Sid’s guys’ll make for. Secure the starboard engine!” They’d been running it for the charge. “Close main induction!”

The ’Cat stationed in front of the telltale “Christmas tree” panel turned, blinking frantic apology. “Board not all green! I not know why not all green!”

“There’s holes in the boat—we know that,” Tex said. “The forward hatch is still open, for one.” Sealing the boat for submergence had received even less priority than the port diesel, since no one had ever envisioned any eventuality that would make them take her down again. They still didn’t want to do that, but they had to breathe. Nothing could breathe in what they’d seen coming.

Something banged dully against the conn tower above, and almost immediately other things began raining against the steel like hail.

“Up scope!” Irvin demanded. The undamaged number one periscope slid upward and he grabbed the handles and twisted it south, peering into the eyepiece. “Oh my God,” he murmured, flinching when something trailing smoke, about the size of a Buick, plummeted past the periscope and splashed alongside. Smaller objects were striking the hull continuously now. The world was gray-black. The roiling mass was
here
. Huge trees flew before it like grass clippings, igniting like matches as they tumbled in its path. He cringed at the sight of flaming meteors of debris. He’d known no one could breathe in what was coming, but he hadn’t expected the sheer force and heat. He watched the shelters, tents, and other things they’d considered home on the beach simply disintegrate in fiery swirls as the periscope lens began to blur.

“Down scope!” he yelled. “Everybody hold on!”

The only audible blow was a massive rushing sound, but S-19 heeled over like a great hand had reached down and simply pushed her conn tower into the sea. Bodies fell atop one another, yelling, screaming, chittering in panic. Shrieks reverberated through the boat. The simple fact about submarines is that there are no soft, padded places anywhere in them. S-19 didn’t even have rack cushions anymore. Irvin clung to the periscope chains—like those of a giant bicycle—as everyone on the port side tumbled to starboard. A ’Cat smashed against him, almost breaking his nose and his grip, before falling soundlessly away. The boat groaned and Irvin felt a juddering, thudding movement. The lights flickered, but never went out, except for those that were smashed by windmilling arms or legs. He watched it all in a kind of surrealistic daze. Somehow, he knew the boat was moving; he expected her to roll all the way over and tumble like a log, but she didn’t—quite. He became too disoriented even to speculate on what was happening outside—how they were moving, where, and how fast. With a sudden sickening sense of loss, he thought briefly about the scoop boats and
Toolbox
. The hail-like sound against the hull grew louder, heavier, and the boat heaved again.

More shrieks reached his ears, cries of panic and surprise joined those of pain, and he realized it had jumped way beyond “sweltering” in the control room.
Of course it’s hot
, he thought. The ash cloud had obviously been propelled by a massive burst of gas from the volcano! “Flood the trim tanks!” he cried, knowing he couldn’t do it himself and hoping someone could who knew how. They’d had the boat riding high and empty of all but fuel as they worked on her and cleaned her out. The fuel in her bunkers was probably the only reason she wasn’t rolling right now. “Flood auxiliary, flood fore and aft!”

“Flooding all variable trim, aye!” came a pained response. Shortly, even as the hail continued, S-19 began to right herself. God, it was hot! Irvin could barely breathe. The panting of Lemurians was almost as loud as the roar outside. He looked at the status board. Mostly green now.

“Flood her down,” he said. “We’ve got to get her hull beneath the water before we cook!” He had no idea where they were, whether they were still in the depression they’d excavated around the sub or had been swept into the lagoon. Either way, they didn’t have any choice.