Sea Siege

by Andre Norton

  "Did we win the war?" he wondered aloud. "Or are they just withdrawing to rest up for another punch? Bet­ter move while we can. Give her the gun, Barnes."

  The Seabee moved from his place by the grenade box back to the controls. Cautiously he spun the motor, and a welcome throb shook them.

  "Do we head in, sir?"

  "We do." Casey had gone to the bow. "When we get close enough, give them three or four more eggs right up along the shore rocks, just to discourage peek-ing—"

  The LC at her own lumbering pace, half-speed to be on the safe side, went islandward. There was a com­motion below, hidden by the ink clouds. Griff guessed that the ravenous feeders of the sea had been drawn to the wounded or dying octopi. He was sure of that as the curved fins of sharks cut in. And where the sea serpent had gone down, there was a whirlpool of ac­tivity.

  "Okay!" Casey snapped. "This is it! Tickle them up, boys. If there're any of them left along here—"

  There was a grating noise, and a shudder shook the full length of the LC.

  "We're walking," Barnes informed them needless­ly. "Shall I keep her going?"

  "After we leave our calling cards. Give it to 'em!"

  Casey's signal brought five precise throws. A good section of the sea-slimed ledges before them went down with a rumble into the agitated water. Ink and blood, and floating remnants. The water was a horrible soup.

  "Now—! Take her in—all the way! There's a slope—"

  "Aye, aye, sir!" For the first time Barnes sounded as if he were enjoying himself.

  The LC shook, dipped, and once, for a wild second or two, slipped on a surface still under water, but her treads caught, and she ground on.

  "That's a sub on top there!"

  In their preoccupation with the sea battle they had almost forgotten their purpose here. But what Lawrence had pointed out was true. The blunt nose of a sub was slanted into the sky, though most of her lay on the op­posite side of the ridge, which formed the backbone of the new land.

  "We've gone as far as we can, sir." Barnes switched off the motor.

  Ahead the rise was at a sharp angle. If they were to go on, it would be afoot.

  Casey was back at the radio, tapping out a call signal.

  "International Morse," he explained. "If there's any­body at home and they can answer us—this ought to bring them out of their shell."

  They waited a long five minutes by Griff's watch, another five—ten. But there was no sign of life about the bow of the sub.

  "Could they have sent that call and then got it—all of them?" wondered Hall.

  "Sure. Well," Casey shrugged, "I guess we do it the hard way. You and me, kid," he said to Griff, "we're elected to the mountain-climbing act. They'll cover us from here with the guns, and we don't go out of sight unless there's an extra-good reason. Okay?"

  "Good enough." Griff slung two of the grenades at his belt, copying Casey's preparations. They kicked off their island sandals, preferring to make that climb bare­footed, not trusting any soles but their own on that weed-slick surface.

  There was a strong smell of decay, as things never meant to lie in the open air under a tropic sun disin­tegrated. Linked together, and to the LC, with lifelines, the two made the first jump from the edge of the bow to a reasonably level ledge.

  Had it not been for the rotting vegetable and animal remains the climb would have been relatively easy. But all at once, Griff, reaching for a new hold, jerked back his hand.

  "Look out!"

  Casey's head came around. "Some of the snakes after us?"

  "No—just watch where you put your hands. See that red stuff—" He pointed to a splotch of crimson, which looked as if it had been hurled against the rock and was slowly slipping from its first point of contact. "That looks to me like the 'plague' weed. And if it is, it may be 'hot'—"

  "Oh, yeah?" Casey studied the stain. "Well, there's no use in being a dead hero. What'd'you know, it seems to be rather thick up ahead, doesn't it?"

  He was right. The higher reaches of the ledges were dotted with reddish blots, some of which left pink trails where they had struck and then slipped down. Griff recalled his first glimpse of the islet and its besiegers through the binoculars. That arm from the sea hurling something upward—this? But why?

  They picked a careful path to avoid the red blobs. Luckily chance had spread most of them up and across walls too steep to climb. With a last spurt Griff reached the top, Casey only seconds behind him. Towering over both of their heads now was the bow of the sub, cant­ing at an angle that fingered it in the direction of the LC.

  The surface of the metal was bedaubed with the red weed, which was drying into scabs. It was plain that if the plague stuff had been systematically thrown from water level, this had been the target of the attack, and the aim in general had been good.

  Though the sub had looked intact from below, what they could see now was a badly crippled ship. What­ever motive power had driven her ashore on the knob of rock had done it with such force as to jam and grind her belly plates, splitting them open as if she were a waterlogged coconut. But all this was inches deep in the red scum. And beyond—downslope so that half its putrescent bulk trailed into the water—was another of the sea serpents, very dead, a ragged hole blasted through its middle.

  "They chalked up one hit anyway," Casey observed, "so they must have survived her striking here."

  "How can we get down to the hatch?" There was plenty of reason for Griff's demand. The reddened ground was a warning.

  "Yeah." Casey pushed back his uniform cap. "Ringing the front door bell is going to be a problem. Ringing the front door bell—" he repeated and then unslung his rifle, "I'm no Daniel Boone, but maybe I can win a cigar on this round. Let's see."

  He aimed at the lopsided superstructure of the sub. There was a crack and the answering bong of bullet against metal. Reslinging his weapon, Casey put both hands to his mouth funnelwise and shouted, "Hi! Any­body home?"

  There was an answer from the men on the LC, and Griff turned to wave. But Casey's attention was for the sub.

  "Give them another shot," Griff suggested when there was movement at last.

  In the round entrance to a hatch, a piece of white stuff appeared and was swung back and forth with slow deliberation, proving those within wanted no mistake about their peaceful intentions.

  "Hulloooo!" Casey called once more.

  "—loooo—" a hollow cry came back. And then framed in the oval hatchway, they saw a figure still waving the parley flag.

  "Come on out," Casey urged.

  The man on the sub still seemed dubious -of his wel­come. But he handed his white flag to someone behind him and took in return a swab on a pole. This he pushed before him to clean the sloping deck as he approached a point near the Americans.

  "Lieutenant Serge Karkoff!" He introduced himself in understandable, if accented, English and made a stiff little bow. "And this"—he waved his hand over the bat­tered sub—"was the Volga. You are—?"

  Casey answered for them both. "Lieutenant Bert Casey, United States Navy, C.B., Griffith Gunston. Looks as if you've been having a little trouble—"

  The other grimaced.

  "Did you come to answer our signal? We could only hope. But where is your ship? Were you not attacked?"

  "You didn't hear the battle?" Casey grinned. "Yes, the fish tried to scupper us, but we had their numbers. We're parked on the other side of the island—"

  "Parked?" the other repeated dully. "There are but four of us unhurt, Lieutenant. And three with broken bones. We surrender unconditionally. If you can—can get us away from this place—"

  Griff saw the Russian's teeth clamp on his lip.

  "Leave your arms behind," Casey ordered. "And you'd better bring some ropes, if you have them. There's a stiff climb over here."

  "It shall be as you say," Karkoff replied. "We must move with caution. This red stuff—it is deadly. Three of our men had died from it—and those—those things keep it all abo
ut!"

  The rescue of the Volga's crew was a lengthy process. Two of the disabled had to be lowered in slings and then carried to the LC. And those on the amphibian were constantly alert against a renewal of hostilities from the sea.

  Now the cockpit quarters were a tighter fit, but the men from the sub were no problem. For the most part they dropped to the deck, staring rather dazedly about them, as if not yet fully realizing that they had been freed from the disabled sub.

  "How long have you been here?" Casey asked the Russian commander.

  Karkoff shrugged. "Two—three—maybe four days. There was a storm, and we drove into something below which was not on our charts. All compartments but one were flooded. Alexis, Gronmyko, all the rest, they had no chance. We could not tell what was happening. Then—hours later—we were able to cut our way out —and found this. After that—it was a terrible dream. There was the sea beast—we blew it apart with a shell from the deck gun. But the gun burst when we tried to fire a second time. Two men were killed then. Aft­erwards came the red stuff." With the gesture of a tired and bewildered man, he rubbed his hands across his face, and his cap fell to the deck. "It is very hard to think; you must excuse me. There has so much hap­pened—and all of it strange. There— You are now fight­ing the war?"

  Casey hitched at his rifle strap. "I don't think there's any war left to fight, Lieutenant. We don't know what has happened—"

  The Russian was younger than Griff had first reck­oned. His broad Slavic face did not register any strong emotion, but his dark eyes held a hurt deep in them. He swayed suddenly, and Griff put out a hand to steady him, pushing him down on the edge of the grenade box.

  "It has come then—the big end to everything?" he asked in a low voice.

  One of the men reached out and touched the of­ficer's dangling hand, asking a question. Almost impa­tiently the other answered, and the Russian seaman drew in his breath with a hissing sound.

  "Seems so," Casey returned frankly. "But our crowd weathered it well—"

  "So I see. You were searching for us?"

  "We were out on a mission of our own when we picked up your signal. Now," he spoke to Barnes, "we'd better get on course again. Take her out."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  With a throbbing motor the LC reversed and crawled back the way she had come.

  "Nickov sent that call before he died," the Russian explained. "We had only a little hope. You are certain that all is gone—?"

  "We don't know. No radio broadcasts have been picked up from the north. But just at present we have other things to think about."

  "Da" Karkoff nodded. "Keeping alive occupies the mind. But if all is gone, why should we struggle to keep alive?"

  "One gets in the habit of it," Casey commented dry­ly. "And, I, for one, am not going to let any damned fish take over running things!" He spat into the water just as the LC tumbled from her reef footing and became all ship once more.

  "Who now is the enemy?" broke out Karkoff. "You and I—or that down there?"

  "We haven't settled that yet, sonny boy," was Casey's prompt reply. "But I'm inclined to think that the line­up will be different from this point on—men against fish!"

  VI

  THE RETURN OF THE ISLAND QUEEN

  "We should be sighting the Largo Cays about now," Griff observed but without too much certainty. One northern run with the Island Queen had been his only introduction to this particular route, and trying to com­pare the cruising speed of the Queen and the lumber­ing LC added to his confusion.

  The vision glass was no help either. Where, by the old charts, it should have shown shallows, it revealed only the darker gloom of depths. But, after they left the island where the Volga had made her last port, they saw no more of the octopi. Karkoff was able to add a fact or two to their information concerning the creatures. It was true that this new breed of cephalopods con­trolled the "sea serpents" and also that they followed an intelligent pattern in their attack on the sub. But why they should be aroused to that attack in the first place still remained a mystery.

  "I see nothing—" Karkoff stood in the bow using his own binoculars. "You seek islands—?"

  "Not islands—except as guides. We're after a couple of fishing boats loaded with refugees." Casey outlined the story of the end of Santa Maria.

  "A whole island sinking!" Again that strained, dazed expression dulled the Russian's eyes. "But why? Why should islands go up and down?"

  "I'm no geologist," Casey replied. "But the balance must have been upset. There's a full-sized volcano off San Isadore—as well as the one at Santa Maria. How do we know what all-out bombing would do? The At­lantic may have poured in over part of the States. And in Europe—"

  The Russian shook his head. "I think that I do not want to know."

  Casey went back to the radio, still hoping for a signal from one of the fishing boats. But as the LC bore on into the sea, there was no sign that any other craft had been there before it. They did not sight the Largo Cays. Perhaps they had sunk. So finally Casey ordered a cir­cling eastward, to head back to San Isadore. Griff felt their failure the more because he assumed the respon­sibility for it.

  "Getting late—" Barnes observed. And they knew what he was thinking.

  Night at sea was a double danger. But in the end it was the darkness that brought success to their mission.

  An excited exclamation from one of the Russians drew their attention to port. A fiery trail ascended into the sky, bursting in a shower of stars. That was not born of a volcano!

  "Head in!"

  Barnes obediently altered course once more, and the searchlight on the bow was turned on, sending a broad path of light out ahead. There was a second starry dis­play and a third. The LC pointed at that dead center. Was that the signal of the boats from Santa Maria—or the call of some other castaway?

  When their beam caught the boat ahead, they were reasonably sure they had found what they sought. There was no mistaking the blunt lines of an island fishing smack built for durable use rather than for record speed. It wallowed toward them deep in the water, as if over­loaded.

  Casey climbed up the netting and, cupping his hands, sent a hail across the waves.

  "What ship?"

  "The Felice, Santa Maria—Who are you?" came the faint reply.

  "Navy LC out of San Isadore," Casey boomed. "We've been hunting you—"

  The Felice and her companion, the Flamingo, crept with the beat of hard-driven engines, their pace less than the LC's second speed. Faces, white, dusky, dark, were picked up by the searchlight.

  "Good Lord!" Hall exploded. "They've packed them in, standing room only!"

  "Can you give a tow?" queried someone from the boats.

  "This is a pretty tough old girl, sir," Barnes spoke up. "But she can't haul the fleet!"

  But that wasn't required. Behind each of the fishing vessels trailed a string of smaller craft. And that under­lined their desperate venture. Only a choice of deaths could have sent the pitiful flotilla into the infested sea so poorly protected against the danger now lurking there.

  The LC could and did take tows, three from each of the fishing craft. And then, her searchlight still on, she led the way back, southwest to San Isadore. They were forced to creep, laboring at such a pace that a rowboat ably handled could have outdistanced them. And only the merciful fact that the sea remained calm saved them.

  All night long they held course, Casey and Barnes alternating at the controls. And the gray light of pre­dawn was easing across the sky when Lawrence switched off the searchlight. By compass they would approach San Isadore from a different direction than they had left and must parallel the coast northward to the base, being now not far from sunken Carterstown.

  Once more they swung to avoid the volcanic cone, and Karkoff, standing beside Griff, exclaimed in Rus­sian before switching to English.

  "This is one of those new volcanoes?"

  "Yes. The night it broke through, San Isadore had several sh
ocks. See that line over there?" He pointed to a double thick horizon. "That's San Isadore."

  "Your base?"

  "Yes"

  "That ship—it is also one of yours?"

  "What ship?" Surprised, Griff looked along the line of the other's pointing finger.

  Karkoff was right. There was a ship there, a spot of white against the waves.

  Before he could ask for the use of Casey's binoculars the other called to him, "Get on the glass, kid. We want to know it if the snakes are preparing a reception party."