The Ninth Wave (21 page)

Feet scuffled on the deck above Mike's head and he woke up. He lay still
for a moment. His body came into contact with the wet sheet only at his
heels, buttocks and head. Each muscle was stiff and contracted, each toe
curled tightly, each finger was huge and separate. As the ship heaved
slightly he felt his viscera roll softly. The general quarters buzzer
went off and Mike came out of his bunk in a lunge.
Mike stuck his feet in his shoes, pulled on his life jacket and went up
the ladder. The moon was just coming up over the island. In the haze of
dust it was heavy and distorted and yellow, but he knew that in a few
minutes it would push into the cleaner atmosphere and become smaller
and more remote and glow with a clean austere light. The water between
the destroyer and the island caught up the yellow reflection in a single
broad band of gleaming water.
As Mike walked to his battle station on the wing of the bridge, the
wind changed slightly and brought the heavy odor of the jungle across
the water. It smelled of old rotted trees which never died, but shed
a green excrescence which slid to the ground and mixed with leaves
and vines. It smelled of ancient mud that bubbled with the gases of
decay. And it smelled of newer smells also: gasoline, spoiled cans of
C-ration, the reek of slit trenches, cordite, grease covered metal. The
smell puzzled Mike. There was something familiar, nostalgic, well known
about the smell. But he could not remember what.
"What's up, Captain?" Mike asked.
The captain was a small neat shadow on the other wing.
"I don't know," Captain Dunbridge said. "Dog Cactus came up on the TBS with
a six-bandit raid, but nothing shows on our screen. Of course nothing ever
shows on that damned screen of ours except grass and friendly strikes."
"What we need is a good radar repairman," Mike said.
Captain Dunbridge grunted. Then he hummed and sang a line, "The world
is waiting for good repairmen." He stopped suddenly and snarled at the
helmsman, "For Christ's sake keep on two four oh. Your wake looks like
a snake."
"Steady on two four oh, sir," the helmsman said. The helmsman's voice
was defensive.
"Balls," the captain said. "Somewhere around two four oh, you mean."
Mike liked the captain and he was the only officer on the ship who
did. Captain Dunbridge was a small, cocky Annapolis man. He was utterly
sure about everything in the Navy., He navigated beautifully, knew
every linkage in the 5"-38, understood every line in the engine and
boiler rooms. He respected every tradition in the Navy. And he did all
this with a sort of grace and sureness that was mortally offensive to
everyone. Even to other Annapolis men.
The TBS speaker hummed and then crackled into words. "Dog Cactus to all
ships and stations. Condition Red. I repeat. The condition is red."
A report came up from CIC that there were two bogies on the screen,
closing fast, but coming so low they were mostly lost in the grass at
the bottom of the screen.
"Talker, pass the word to the gun crews to keep a sharp lookout for
planes on the starboard side," Captain Dunbridge said.
The talker spoke into the sound-powered phones. The destroyer slid in
closer to the transports and Mike could see the intricate superstructure
of the transports silhouetted against the yellow loom of the moon. All
the boats from the transports had run into the beach and the ships were
utterly silent. Occasionally a helmeted head moved on one of the ships
and high in the masts the radar antennas spun soundlessly.
They all heard them at the same time. They sounded tiny and faraway, but
the sound was foreign and dangerous and they knew they were Japanese. They
simply sounded different from the P-38's and B-24's. The sound became
snarling and loud, as if they were rushing down an empty tunnel toward the
ship. Mike felt the air in his lungs grow hot and he put a finger to his
face and at the feel of flesh upon flesh he could suddenly breathe easily
again. The noise of the planes grew louder and Mike knew they were rushing
down the path of moonlight which silhouetted the transports. He looked
out to seaward and could see nothing. A 20-mm. started to spark, sending
out a short stream of incandescent balls, then stopped uncertainly. Then
the whole magazine traced out a long, beautifully wavering line.
"Silly bastard," Mike said. "Probably an LCI that got panicky."
At the same time he felt relief at seeing the tracers from the 20-mm. They
gave a definition to the blackness of the night, announced that the fight
had begun, were a sign that one could fight back.
Suddenly two thin lines of exhaust flame became visible. At the same
time, the planes started to take form out of the darkness. There were
two of them, moving like shadows, very close to the water. They came
slowly, their lines and shape utterly foreign. The transports started to
fire. The 40-mm.'s made straight hot lines across the sky and then they
were crisscrossed by the countless smaller tracers from the 20-mm.'s. The
tracers all converged just behind and below the target. The planes seemed
to be riding the stream of fire directly toward the transports.
A black object detached itself from the leading plane and slipped into
the water, leaving a white wreath on the smooth surface. Almost at once
the object began to trail a finger of gleaming phosphorus. The torpedo
straightened out and headed toward a transport. The plane pushed blackly
on toward the ship, a wing delicately tipped the foremast of the transport
and quite suddenly it started to tumble. It slowed down and moved in absurd
wounded flight. It touched the water and bounced into the air and bits of
material flew from it like torn-out feathers. Then as it bounced across
the water it burst into a gigantic solid ball of flame. For a few seconds
it looked like a huge flower, with a black skeleton in the center.
Mike remembered the torpedo and turned back in time to see it hit. It
hit aft on the transport and he felt a shock as the underwater explosion
crystallized the water for a brief second. Then the destroyer shivered.
From the stern of the transport a thick bright column started to rise
slowly. In its yellow solidity Mike saw a machine gun mount, an ammunition
locker and a man. They all turned slowly in black, perfect outline. As
it reached its peak, all of the light went out of the column and it
collapsed into the ocean.
Then the air blast from the explosion hit the destroyer in a solid
invisible wave. Mike felt himself pushed hard against the bulkhead
and a row of rivets was moulded against his back. A signalman with his
back to the explosion was forced to his knees and as he looked over his
shoulder in surprise his movement was suddenly .accelerated. The man's
face mushed soundlessly into the steel deck. The blast wave passed and
Mike stepped away from the bulkhead. The signalman pushed himself up
and his face had a soft grinning look. A tiny stream of blood ran like
black mucus from his nose. He started to say something to Mike, but he
only bubbled and then a white tooth came out of the mess of his mouth
and fell to the deck. He suddenly was articulate.
"God damn," he said. "God damn, but that happened fast."
He walked past Mike onto the bridge. Mike felt a sharp rage at the two
planes. He hoped the second one had been hit, but he could not see it
and its sound was already remote and faraway. He felt a futile, hopeless,
formless anger.
"Mr. Freesmith, organize the rescue party," Captain Dunbridge said. The
captain was giving orders to the helmsman. Between orders he gave
instructions to Mike. "Take the rescue party to the fan-tail. Ease your
helm. Stop the starboard engine. Back one third on the port engine,"
he said sharply. "The fan-tail is closer to the water. Put over Jacobs
ladders and nets. Also some rubber rafts if you can."
Already the transport angled up into the air. There was a ripping sound
as some object tore loose and crashed down the tilted deck. A growing
circle of fire burned around the sinking end of the ship. The crackling
of burning oil and the crash of falling objects were the only sounds. The
small bright eye of an Aldis lamp started to blink from the bridge of
the transport.
"'Send boats' is what they're sending, Captain," one of the signalmen
said.
"We don't have any boats," the captain said. "We'll come in close and
pick up survivors."
The destroyer, swinging in a wide beautiful circle, headed away from the
transport. As Mike ran back toward the fan-tail he heard the captain
give the order to stop all engines. The rescue party assembled on the
fan-tail, watched as the stern of the destroyer swung around and finally
pointed straight at the transport
"He's going to back down on them," Mike said. He felt a flash of admiration
for the captain. "Put over cargo nets and Jacobs ladders. Don't take off
your life jackets. Don't go into the water unless you get orders."
Slowly the destroyer backed down on the transport, bearing precisely
on the circle of burning oil. When they were fifty yards away Mike felt
the engines stop and silently they slid toward the transport. He thinks
of everything, Mike thought. He even got enough way on so that we will
come up to them without our screws turning over.
Mike hung over the side and suddenly he could see dozens of heads floating
on the water. As if by a signal the mouths in the heads opened. Mike
could see the white flashing teeth, the gaping, huge mouths, the glint
of wide eyes. What the men shouted was senseless and chaotic; strangely
irrelevant.
"Me. Me. Me, I'm married," a head with a chiefs cap shouted. "Married
and two kids." He roared the words in a steady monotone and his voice
was unexcited, but his eyes bulged from his head and glittered with
queer lights.
"First. Me first. Broken leg," a head, with black oil covering everything
except the eyes and mouth, yelled. "First, first, first." The voice was
savage with determination.
These were the only voices Mike could make out, but he realized that
each man in the water was shouting out his justification, his claim to
be taken out of the water first. The sound was more urgent among the men
at the rear who were closest to the burning oil. Mike knew that most of
the men were in shock and this accounted for their peculiar immobility.
"We ought to go in the water after them, Mr. Freesmith," a chief in
Mikes rescue party said. "They're not going to be able to get to the
ladders and nets."
"Shut up," Mike said. "Nobody goes into the water until we see if that
fire is going to spread. If the ship starts going down, the suction will
pull everyone in the water down with it."
"The captain says to get the lead out of your ass and get the survivors
aboard," the talker said. Mike jerked his head around. Under his huge
domed helmet the talker was not smiling and Mike knew this was exactly
what the captain had said.
"Tell him they won't swim to the ladders," Mike said.
The talker spoke into the phones. Then he looked up.
"Captain says to get 'em moving. Any way you know how," he said. "But
get going."
Mike looked back at the water. A few feet behind the chief was a very
young boy. He was shaking his head in quick negative motions as if he
were denying something. One side of his face had a crusted black look
to it. He was not looking up at the ship and each time he shook his head
his face dipped in the water and came up glistening.
That god damn captain, Mike thought. Get them moving how? Dirty bastard.
"That kid out there, the one shaking his head. He isn't going to last much
longer," a voice said at Mike's elbow. Mike turned and saw it was Wilson,
a fat middle-aged carpenter in the rescue party. "I'll go in after him."
"The hell you will," Mike shouted. "You want to make a damned dead hero
of yourself?"
He turned back and saw that the boy's head was moving only slightly. Mike
put his leg over the wire stay and turned to the rescue crew.
"I'll get 'em moving toward the ship," he said. "Don't any of you come
over until I give the word."
He turned and dove into the water. The kapok jacket kept him from going
deep. As he started to swim, he saw that he still had his wristwatch on
and he cursed. Now that he was level with them the sound was deafening
and incredibly confusing.
The boy was even younger than he had looked from the ship. The water
around him was perfectly flat and a queer phosphorescent light loomed
up from the bottom. Half of the boy's face was in the water and the eye
that was under water was open and staring, exactly like the eye above
water. The eyes moved slowly and stared at Mike. Mike reached over and
pushed the boy straight in his life jacket
Water gushed out of the boy's mouth and he spoke very deliberately.
"Look, sir, this isn't my fault. I saw the fucking plane, but my gun
wouldn't train. And I'm one of the best gunners on the ship, sir," he
said in an apologetic voice. Mike realized the boy could see the bars
on his shirt.
Mike reached out and grasped the boy's hand and started to swim with him
toward the destroyer. The boy's hand slipped away with a soft lubricated
feeling. Holding up his hand, he saw that it was filled with black horny
material. The boy's hand was pink and naked looking and from the slick
raw flesh small drops of suppuration were running down the fingers. The
hand had been flash-burned to a crisp and Mike had stripped off the burnt
skin. The boy looked at his pink fingers and made a whimpering sound. Mike
shook his hand violently, snapping the matter from his fingers.
"Try the other hand," the boy said and brought it up from the water.
The hand looked normal with white callouses and brown skin. Mike took
it and started to tow the boy toward the destroyer. As he went past the
chief he hesitated and then yelled.
"All right, Chief, get going over to the fan-tail or you'll drown out
here. Get going."
He hauled the boy to the nearest Jacobs ladder. He started to shove the
boy up the ladder. As if by a signal the other men in the water started
to swim toward the destroyer. The shouting stopped abruptly. None of the
men broke the water with their hands. They surged forward the way a dog
swims, with no splash, heads bent forward, necks stretched, eyes bulging.
They came like a swarm of lemmings; silently, uniformly, swiftly. Mike
saw the eyes of the first man and knew that he saw neither him nor the
boy, but only the strands of the Jacobs ladder, the round dark rungs of
wood that led up the side of the destroyer to safety. The vanguard of
silently swimming men reached the Jacobs ladder. They swarmed over Mike
and the boy. Mike felt fingernails dig into his face, shallow rapid
breaths hissed across his face, feet dug into his hips and then his back
and finally his face.