At the Midway (69 page)

The ocean shifted.  The creature was so immense it could be sensed before seen.  Beck could feel its enormous bow wave shove at his shoulders.  Even before it hove into view, the middy lost control of his bladder.

"No..." he pleaded in the deadening confines of the helmet.  With mincing steps he made a small circle.

It came like an underwater cathedral--with a certainty, a god-like ownership of ocean.  It swam easily, surrounded by immense silence.  Yet once it turned towards Beck, he lost all perspective of it.  Coasting just below the surface, its belly snapped the tops off stag horn coral below.  It veered away from the
Florida
at the last instant, swam a short distance away, returned, veered off again.  Like a shark gauging its prey.  Beck wished the ghostly metal hammering inside the hull would stop.  He was sure the repair crew was drawing the creature's attention.

The creature glided closer.  Beck had no doubt it would clip his air line.  He would be suffocated or consumed.  He closed his eyes as the great maw opened before him, counted the seconds, knowing there was nothing more he could do.  The sea crowded into him, like the mass of young men who'd tossed their caps in the air at graduation.  Well, he tried to console himself, at least I'll never have to take the officers exam.

Suddenly he heard...

...engines.

Opening his eyes, he saw no sign of the creature, but the tidal gyrations of the water tugging him this way and that told him it was still close by.  He ventured another mincing minuet.

There!
  The tail swung away from him.

In the direction of a trio of silhouettes cutting the waves overhead.  He detected the distant rattle and thud of small arms and artillery.  Frantically, he took hold of the guide line and yanked three times.

Nothing happened.  Was anyone paying attention to him up there?  The air pump was fueled by gasoline.  What would happen when the small tank went dry?  Would anyone notice?

He tried to lean down to unstrap his weighted shoes, but the bulky suit would allow no more than a brief bow.

He yanked again.

And again.

0610 Hours

Holding the wheel tightly, Garrett was nearly thrown end over end by the impact.  "No!" he shouted when a huge crest of water fell over the coal in one of the barges.  The worst thing in a hot stokehold was wet coal, smoldering, ready to catch fire any instant.

His dismay was transformed into horror when the creature heaved the forward part of its body down like a landslide onto the barge.  The creature was in a fury due to the red gash in its neck, caused by one of the three-inchers.

The tug bucked wildly.  The men at the starboard gun were catapulted over the side.  Garrett heard their screams even as he was flung against the wall of the pilothouse.  While men were lost, the tug gained: a quarter ton of coal, raining down like black hail on the deck as the barge and tug swatted together and then apart in a geometric spasm.

"The barge is sinking!" a marine yelled as the creature slid off into the water.  "We'll have to cut loose!"

"The hell we will!"

Like an omen, Amos Macklin appeared on deck.  Besides the fishermen manning the engines, he and Garrett were the only sailors on board.  Outside of Hart and Singleton, the rest were marines.  He had refused to allow the fanatical young man from the ill-fated whaler to come along.  It was bad enough hauling two civilians.  When William Pegg insisted that he was fit enough to row, Garrett advised him that the only ships going back to the
Florida
were the
Iroquois
and a motor launch.  There would be no rowing on the outward leg and he would be unable to help in any event.  The young man's face fell and he seemed to disappear before their eyes.

"Mr. Garrett!  That hit busted one of the tubes!"

Garrett slapped him on the shoulder.  "Can you manage the helm?  I have to go over the side."

Amos gaped.

"C'mon, lolly-banger!  Can you take it?"

"I piloted a tug in Jacksonville for--"

"Good.  Bring the port barge up on those collision mats fo'ard the
Florida
.  Not those aft.  Got it?"

There was no shame in Amos' fear.  They were every man jack of them terrified to their bones.

"Aye, sir."

"You're a credit to your race.  Hey!  Jarhead!  Hand me that ax.  If I can't save the barge...."

The marine he was yelling at had an itch to put the ax in Garrett's head, but put it in his hand instead.  Hamilton and Singleton came up and asked what they could do to help.  "Stay out of my way!"  Before they could protest, he was over the side.

"Goddamn!" he shouted the instant he hit the slope of coal.

"She's shipping water!" yelled a marine half-buried in the coal when he was knocked overboard.  Garrett helped him finish digging out.  His arm was broken.  "Give us a boost here!"

Hands reached down from the tug and took hold of the marine.  As he hefted the groaning man by the armpits, he noticed a slash of red on the side of the tug.  The second marine had been crushed between the two vessels.

So much for him.  Now for the barge.

Garrett took up the ax again and started up the hill.  At least fifteen tons of coal remained on the barge.  The ensign was loath to lose them.  For every two steps, he slid back one as the coal shifted beneath him.

He heard the distinct ring of the engine room telegraph on the tug.  Amos was stopping the engines in an attempt to keep the barge from taking on so much water.

His eyes seemed to go stark dry when he saw the whirlpool to starboard.  Whenever the creature made a turn in the shallows, cyclonic galaxies appeared on the surface.  He caught sight of a fin, then a snout.

"Oh!" came an involuntary shout when one of the three-inchers on the tug thumped, pummeling his ears with the abrupt concussion.  From the
Florida
machine gun fire rained down.

Garrett was at the top of the hill of coal when the head erupted from the water and the great neck stretched out.

His body puckered like a walnut.  He felt his whole being collapse.  The creature appeared quickly, like a ghost popping from nowhere.  It moved in like a picture screen falling over.
 
Immediately, all his faith in the duff sauce vanished.  He began burrowing into the coal.  The hot fetid breath, the rank, innumerable dead, fell over him like a cerecloth.  He lost coordination, legs and arms jerked spasmodically.  He fell, rolling down the slope away from the tug.  The creature followed his progress with an almost disinterested tilt of its neck.  Looking up from the gunwale, Garrett noted a discolored patch of skin around the creature's jaw and suspected it was caused by shell
-
blast.  The third marine was nowhere in sight.  He pressed his feet against the gunwale and shoved himself head-first into the coal.  He was suffocating in an instant and had to pull out.

He squinted through the coal dust pasted to his face.  He could feel the barge jerk repeatedly as the serpent bumped against it.

No more gunfire from the
Florida
, now but fifty yards away.  It surprised the ensign that the gunners should be afraid of hitting him.  Maybe they thought he could still save the barge.

A sudden calm came over Garrett--a numbness like the first moment of sleep.  Shifting uneasily on the coal, he stood and raised his eyes.  The creature stared back at him.  It struck Garrett that the men in the ship had a grandstand view of what was happening.  They had seen him grovel.  They had witnessed his loss against Beck.  Now he would make up for it
-
-
show them what balls were all about.  He recalled the boxer he'd seen as a boy dying of heart failure in the ring.  A scrapper to the end.  "Let's hear it, boys!  Fanfare and epitaph!"  Then he turned roundly on the beast and said, "Fuck you, and let's both go to hell."

The ax had fallen down the slope with him and lay half-buried near his feet.  It had been his intention to hack the cables if the coal could not be saved, but the barge was no longer shipping water.  The gunwale was indeed damaged, but coal had slid against it from the inside, in effect, shoring it up.  He had to get out.  Wishing he was already dead and free of worry, he pulled out of his hole and began climbing back the way he'd come, grabbing the ax as he went.  His skin prickled.  He knew the creature was still staring at him.  He could smell its breath.  It seemed to exhale an entire ancient catacomb from its lungs, a stench so awful Garrett retched.  But he kept going.

"Okay, Mr. Pegg, let's see if your magic elixir really works."  The sheer presence of the beast was like a heavy boulder on his back--a weight that suddenly increased.

A heavy thump sent Garrett sprawling.  Shouting, almost screaming, he pushed up onto his knees and crawled--until a painful nudge sent him sprawling once again.

Twisting on his side, he found himself gaping at the creature's snout only inches away, saw the head flex with disgust when the creature caught a strong whiff of the duff sauce.

So William Pegg's Portuguese repellent actually worked!  But how well?  Dare he risk a swing of the ax?  With infinite fear and caution, he rose and braced his feet as well as he could. He breathed like a man with a sack over his head.
 
The creature's jaw was so massive he could not reach far enough beyond it to strike one of its eyes.  But he could give its snout a good sting....

The barge abruptly lurched and listed.  Garrett heard the tug's engines pick up.

The cables had been cut!

The
Iroquois
was pulling away.

Who had given the order?  Amos?  That galled.  Condemned to his fate by an ebony steward.

He glanced at the ax in his hand and wondered what the hell could have possibly possessed him.  He dropped it and began tunneling backwards into the coal, like a toad in the mud.

The creature watched him.  It seemed almost thoughtful.  It sniffed at Garrett again.  There was a sudden, mighty sneeze.

The creature was gone by the time Garrett cleared the mucous from his eyes.

0643 Hours

The ocean had gonged resoundingly when the serpent pounded the barge.  Midshipman Beck heard the muffled crack of wood, saw black curls of coal dust underneath the hull.  He had no doubt it would smash the barge to flinders, as well as the tug.

Jesus, what's wrong with them up there
? he wondered as he pulled at the guide rope for the hundredth time.  He could think of a boatswain who was going to get his head knocked in once he was topside.

If he lived that long.

He saw the creature swoop away from the barge and screamed with frustration.  The perfect opportunity for escape was gone.

The ocean pulsed.  He found himself being rocked back and forth like a sea fan.  When he tried to turn, he was lifted off his feet by the current.  An enormous brownish-green blur passed before him.  The seabed twirled underneath him as he was stopped cold--then spun in the opposite direction.  Metal creaked overhead as the
Florida
shifted above the vortex.

Played like a pendulum, Beck swung down and up as the creature made an elliptical orbit of the battleship.  The wild movement was so unnerving he didn't notice when his air stopped.

Bright lights alternated with blank patches.  The undersea world, already alien, became even less comprehensible.  He listened for the click of the air valve and failed to hear it.  He looked overhead for the ship's silhouette--and saw only sand and coral.

I'm turning a loop!
he thought with fearful amazement.

Not for long.  The lead shoes dragged him over and down.  He was prone and falling when he doubled across a chimney of coral.  Beck felt as though a raw bite had been ripped from his gut.  Numb with pain, he could only watch helplessly as the sea bottom fell away.  He could not decide if he was going in the right direction.  To his right, he saw the creature--

No!  It was the--

He slammed against the hull, his metal helmet banging like a bell.  He saw the forward hawser hanging down not a foot away from him.  He reached.  Missed.  As he drifted down, the chain sloped away, almost out of reach.  Last-chance desperation gave him the strength to grab for it again.  His gloved fingers locked on one of the links.  As he drew himself to the hawser the tangled air hose yanked short.  His head snapped back.  Only the fact that the hawser was kept religiously clean allowed him to keep his grip.  Even a hint of harbor slime would have caused his fingers to slip.  He brought his legs up and wrapped them tightly around the thick chain.  As he worked upwards, slack gathered in the line, making the ascent easier.

Still... no air.  He saw the undulating glitter of the sun on the surface.  Higher he pulled, the last breath of oxygen in his helmet spent.  Limbs and lungs felt afire.  His legs loosened.  He could not kick.  Only his arms could save him.  And they were numb and pointless.  He saw the vague shroud of death and shrugged inwardly.  With mild astonishment he realized he could still work his hands.  Might as well make one last push....