There were bodies on the main deck. Youngblood, Czerny, and de Groot. And there was the upper part of the beautiful Anne Mathy, the former Hollywood star. She looked like a China doll which some sick child had mutilated.
He had seen corpses and blood before, and he wasn't any youngster playing Confederate soldier. There was no Wild West to run away to, leaving the Civil War to those with a taste for it. He couldn't desert now.
From fear he went to anger. The cup of bourbon that Joe – good old Joe! – handed him fueled his wrath. Damn John and his sneaky tricks! He'd send the man to hell, go with him if it was necessary.
He spoke to Byron. "Do you think we could blast those bastards out of that cave?"
The exec took a long look. "I think so. Of course, if their missile supply is exhausted, there's no use wasting ours on them."
"I don't see any in the tubes," Sam said. "But they might be keeping them out of sight, hoping we'll come back to attack. Let's go back and make sure. I don't want those hyenas laughing at us."
Byron raised his eyebrows. Evidently he thought it was foolish to risk more hits. He said, "Yes, sir," and went back to the intercom. Sam told Detweiller what he wanted. And while the Not For Hire turned again, the rocket crews readied for their mission.
Byron gave his report in a flat cool voice. Twenty dead. Thirty-two badly wounded. Eleven of the wounded could be patched up and returned to duty. One steam machine gun, one rocket battery, and one cannon were destroyed. The rockets and the cannon shells had blown up also, doing more damage than the missiles themselves. There were two large holes in the flight deck, and the cabins in the lowest tier of the pilothouse had been blown out. Enough of the structure of the base remained to ensure stability. This couldn't be guaranteed if another rocket hit the structure. Their firepower was reduced, but the boat's performance was not affected.
Worst of all, the radar antennas had been destroyed.
A lookout told Sam that new rockets were being put into the tubes by the men in the cave.
"Byron, start firing when I give the word!" Sam said.
The exec relayed the order to sight in on the opening. The boat was now eight hundred yards from the base of the cliff. Sam told Detweiller to spin it, presenting its starboard side. He should then let the current carry it away until the starboard cannon batteries had fired. These were one 88-millimeter cannon, much more accurate than the rockets, and the compressed air cannon.
At Sam's relayed order, the 88-millimeter belched fire, smoke, and thunder, and the other whooshed. One shell struck just above the opening; the other struck just below. No second round was necessary. The rockets in the cave must have been set off by the lower explosion. They went up in a cloud from which spewed fragments that could have been bodies.
When the smoke cleared, only some twisted metal could be seen.
"I think we can take it for granted they're wiped out," Sam said. He felt gratified. The enemy were not human beings. They were things that could kill him and had to be killed before they could do so.
"Take her back to the center about a quarter-mile from the pass," Sam said. "Byron, order the helicopter brought up."
"King John is using his, too," Byron said. He pointed at the opening. Sam saw it, hanging about two thousand feet up, a tiny machine framed in the dark gate of the strait.
"I don't want John to see what we're doing," he said. "Tell Petroski to get rid of it."
Sam called in de Marbot. The instructions took two minutes. De Marbot saluted and went off to carry out the plan.
Petroski, the copter pilot, warmed up the motor, and took off with his two machine-gunners. The fuselage was fitted with ten small heat-seeking missiles, some of which, it was hoped, would down the enemy machine while others would strike the Rex.
Sam watched it as it climbed slowly, burdened with its deadly load. It took a while to climb up above the altitude of the craft in the mouth of the pass. Sam asked the Frenchman how he was coming. De Marbot, in the stern, replied that both launches were almost filled with rockets. He could leave in a few minutes.
"I'll give the word when the coast is clear," Sam said.
Petroski's machine finally quit climbing. The other copter was still in its original position. When its pilot saw the big all-white chopper moving to get above it, he spun his machine around and fled.
The radar operator, now posted as lookout, said, "Enemy aircraft is moving at an estimated eighty-five miles per hour."
"Then it's faster than ours," Sam said. "It's not carrying near as much weight. Byron, tell de Marbot he can go ahead."
The huge hatch had been open for some time. The larger of the launches, Post No Bills, slid out of the water-filled compartment, kicking up a white wake. It turned and headed toward the shore. Close behind it came the After You, Gascon. Both were loaded with rockets, dismantled launching apparatus, and marines.
Petroski's voice came from the set. "The enemy has gone around the bend. I'm going up another two thousand feet before I go around."
While Sam waited for another report, he watched the launches. Their noses were against the low bank now, and men were jumping out of them into the water. They quickly waded ashore and began off-loading the weapons and equipment. Each man would then carry a forty-pound missile or part of a disassembled launcher.
"John must have sent men up first with tackles and ropes," Sam said. "Then he must have winched those heavy rockets from the deck of the Rex. It would've been at night, of course, so the Virolanders wouldn't see them. I must've been a hell of a job. Too bad we don't have time to place heavy rockets. But those light rockets can do plenty of damage if they hit the right places on the Rex."
He rubbed his hands and blew out a cloud of smoke from his cigar.
"There's nothing like turning the tables on old John. Using his own trap to trap him."
"If we have time," Byron said. "What if the Rex comes barreling out of the strait before our weapons are situated?"
"That could happen, but it ain't likely," Sam said, frowning. "Once John reenters the pass, he can only go straight ahead. There isn't room to turn around, even if he spins on one wheel. For all he knows, we might be waiting for him, just outside the exit, out of radar sight, and out of sonar detection, too. We could blast his ass off as he comes around."
"Maybe he could back up," Joe said.
"With two cannon and fifty rockets aiming at the pilothouse and four torpedoes at the hull?"
Sam snorted.
"Anyway, I'd like to see you trying to run that boat in reverse in that current with only thirty feet to spare on each side. Detweiller couldn't do it. Even I couldn't do it!"
They waited. Sam watched the long line of marines, each man loaded with a silvery cylinder or a piece of equipment. .Presently, de Marbot reported by walkie-talkie.
"I've found the path."
"I see you waving your arm," Sam said. "It should take you about an hour to get to the cave. It's not so high up but the path must be a long one."
"We'll go as fast as possible," the Frenchman said. "But we can't go too fast if the trail is narrow."
"I trust your judgment."
"Petroski's speaking again," the operator said. Sam could hear the pilot before he got to the radio.
"We've dropped to the surface," Petroski said. "I decided to come in at the height of the control room. They'll pick us up on the radar as soon as we get around the last bend. But I'm counting on shaking them up, spoiling their aim. Six rockets for the pilothouse, six for the chopper, whether it's in the air or the flight deck."
Petroski sounded happy. He was a wild Pole who had flown for the RAF against Hitler. After the war, he had refused to live in communist Poland and so had emigrated to Canada and earned his living first as a bush pilot and later as a police copter pilot.
"Hot damn!" Petroski bellowed. "The boat's just outside the entrance! Its nose is pointed straight at me. Only a quarter-mile to go! Wish me luck!"
The roar of motor and vanes was h
eavy, but his excited voice rode above that.
"Fire six!" Two seconds. Then, "Dead on! Missed the control room but blew the smokestacks all to hell! Can't see through the smoke! Pulling up now! Flak all over the place! Can't see through the smoke! Oh, oh! There's the chopper, on the flight deck! I'll . . ."
The radio operator looked up at Sam.
"Sorry, Captain. It's dead."
Sam ground the end of his cigar to shreds on the set and cast it on the deck.
"A rocket must've got him."
"Probably."
The operator's eyes were moist. Petroski had been his good friend for ten years.
"We don't know if he got John's chopper or not," Sam said. He wiped his eyes with his knuckles. "Shit, I feel like ramming right on it, making him pay . . ."
Byron raised his eyebrows again at this unprofessional attitude.
"Yeah, I know," Sam said. "We'd fall into his trap. Forget it. And I know what else you're thinking. It would have been better to have retained our observation facilities, to put it in cold military language. Now John can keep an eye on us with his chopper, if Petroski didn't destroy it."
"We took a chance, and perhaps it paid off," Byron said. "Perhaps both the copter and the control room were hit. Petroski wouldn't have had enough time to make an accurate assessment."
Sam strode back and forth some more, puffing so hard the air-conditioning couldn't keep up with the clouds. Finally, he stopped, thrust his cigar out as if he was spearing an idea. Which, in a sense, he was.
"John isn't going to come back unless he knows where we are. So, he'll either scout with his chopper or a launch. In either case, we'll not fire on it. Byron, tell de Marbot to hold his fire if either leaves the strait. And to lie low.
"Detweiller, take her to a grailstone near the temple. We'll dock there and do some repairing."
"How come, Tham?"
"How come? So John's spies will see us there. Then, if he's going to attack, he'll know he won't be ambushed. In fact, he might think the rockets from the cliff did us so much damage we're badly hurt. And he'll know he can get through the strait before we could even get near him. Then it'll be the last deal, with us holding a royal flush. I hope."
"But, Tham," Joe said, "vhat if Petrothki did blow up the control room? And Bad Chohn vath killed? Maybe they ain't in no pothithyon to fight."
"I don't see anybody under a white flag and offering to surrender. We'll just retreat and hope that John will come out to do battle. In the meantime, we'll do a little scouting of our own. Byron, send the Gascon out. Tell Plunkett to go through the strait at top speed, take a quick look, and get to hell back here."
"May I offer a suggestion?" Byron said. "The Gascon has torpedos."
"No, by thunder! I'm not going to sacrifice any more good men on suicide missions! It's dangerous enough as it is, as the old bachelor said to the spinster who proposed marriage. They could be attacked by the chopper, though I think it's more than an even match for the Gascon there. In fact, if the chopper should chase the launch out, de Marbot should then fire on it. We'll have our information, and John will wonder what in hell happened to his chopper. He won't be able to resist sending a launch out to scout. We'll let the launch get back.
"In any event, John isn't going to come through until nightfall. I think."
Byron transmitted the messages. Presently, the whitely shining Gascon swung away from the bank and headed toward the strait. Its commander was the younger son of an Irish baron and had been a naval aide-de-camp to King George V and then an admiral. He was a veteran of the battles of Heligoland, Dogger Bank, and Jutland, and a recipient of the Grand Cross, the Order of Orange-Nassau of Holland, and the Russian Order of St. Stanislas, Second Class, with swords. He was also a distant relative of the great fantasy writer, Lord Dunsany, and, through Dunsany, of the famous English explorer, Richard Francis Burton.
"Sir," John Byron said, "I think we've overlooked something. The marines are still a long way from having their rockets set up. If the enemy helicopter or launch should pursue the Gascon, they won't be in any danger from de Marbot's fire. And they might well see his men on the mountain path. Then they would know we're setting up an ambush."
"Yeah, you're right," Sam said reluctantly. "Okay. Tell His Lordship to come back until de Marbot is situated. No use his wasting power circling around."
"Yes, sir," Byron said. He spoke on the radio to Plunkett, then turned swiftly on Sam. "Only . . . the admiral is not properly referred to as His Lordship. He is the younger son of a peer, which legally makes him a commoner. And since his father was a baron, the lowest in the rank of peers, he does not even have an honorary title."
"I was being facetious," Sam Said. "Lord preserve me from British sticklers!"
The little Englishman looked as if he thought facetiousness had no place in the control room. He was probably right, Sam thought. But he had to kid around a little. It was the only way he could let off pressure. If he didn't, he'd blow his mental boiler sky-high. See the pretty pieces flying through the air. Those are Sam Clemens.
Byron was tough, unperturbed in any situation, as calm as a man who's sold his stock just before the market crashed.
The boat was still far out in the lake, though cutting at an angle toward the bank. Big black clouds were visible to the north. Smoke from the fires started by the fallen airplanes. There would be even more fires tomorrow – unless the rain quenched them. The locals certainly would have no love for either King John or himself. It was a good thing they were pacifists. Otherwise, they might be objecting violently when one of their grailstones was borrowed this evening by those whom they could only regard as killers and arsonists. The giant batacitor of the Not For Hire had to be recharged, even though it was far from empty, and the crew had to refill their grails. He did not think that the Rex would show during this time. It had the same needs.
Unless . . . unless John thought he could catch them sitting. It was possible he might try to do that. His motors had not used up all the energy stored; the Rex had not traveled all day. He could have many hours' electrical supply left.
No, John wouldn't attempt it. Not knowing that his enemy was radarless, he would think that the Rex would be detected the moment it showed its nose. And he'd have to cross three miles of lake to get to the Not For Hire. Before he could do that, the enormous hemispherical plate covering the grailstone could be swung aboard and stored and the boat well on its way to meet the Rex.
If only he had an aircraft left to tell him when John's boat was being recharged. If the Rex was connected to a grailstone near the inlet of the strait, the Not For Hire could be on it before it could get into action. No, John would think of that. He'd go far enough up The River so he'd have time to get ready. And he'd know that Sam Clemens would take the same precaution.
But if he would think of that, why not charge on through and catch John with his royal pants down?
If only he knew the topography, the width of The River on the other side of the mountain. But Plunkett would get the data needed.
Byron said, "Would you like to bury the dead now, sir?"
33
* * *
"Heh?" Sam said. "On, yes, might as well get it over with now. We won't have time later. Are there enough marines left for the burial squad?"
"Exactly forty-two, sir," Byron said with some satisfaction at having anticipated his captain.
"Good. That's enough to bury everybody, including themselves. In fact, we'd better just use three rifles. We need to conserve all the powder we can."
The services were short. The bodies were laid out on the stern of the flight deck, wrapped in cloths, weighted with stones. Half the crew was assembled; the rest stayed on duty.
" . . . for now we know that resurrection is possible, all having experienced its truth. Thus we consign your bodies to the deeps of The River in the hope that you will once again walk the face of this world or some other. For those who believe in God, may He bless you. So long!"
The rifle salute was given. One by one the bodies in fishskin bags were picked up and swung out into the air. Weighted with stones, they would sink to be eaten by the small and the big fish prowling, pressing, dark, thousands of feet below.
The Not For Hire put into the bank, and its anchors were dropped. Sam went ashore to face an intensely angry La Viro. The big dark hawk-faced man raged at the stupidity and cruelty of both parties. Sam listened stony-faced. This was no time for a wisecrack. But when La Viro demanded that he leave the area, Sam said, "There is no way to avoid this conflict. One of us must go down. Now, do I have your permission to use a grailstone?"
"No!" La Viro shouted. "No! You do not!"
"I am indeed sorry," Sam said. "But I am using one anyway. If you interfere, you and your people will be fired upon."
La Viro said nothing for a minute. Finally, his breathing became lighter and the redness faded from his skin. "Very well. We will not use force. You knew we wouldn't. All I can do is appeal to your humanity. That has failed. On your own head be the consequences."
"You don't understand," Sam said. "We have to get to the polar sea. Our mission is vital to this world. I can't explain why, but, believe me, it is."
He looked up at the sun. In an hour, it would touch the top of the western range.
At that moment, Hermann Göring joined the small group behind La Viro. He said something to his chief in a low voice. La Viro said loudly, "Very well. Evacuate them."
Göring turned and spoke in a trumpet voice. "You heard La Viro! We will go east and get away from this hellish conflict. Spread the word! Everybody east! Martin, you send up the signal balloon!"
Göring turned to Clemens.
"You can see now, or should be able to see, that I was right! I objected to the building of your boat because your purpose was evil! We weren't raised from the dead and put here to glorify ourselves or indulge in mindless sensuality, in hate, and in bloodshed! We . . ."
Sam turned away. Followed by Miller, Sam walked out on the floating dock and up the gangplank to the hurricane deck. Joe said, "Thon of a bitch, Tham. He really chewed you out."
R.W. IV - The Magic Labyrinth Page 24