by John Ringo
* * *
"Holy grapp," Jaen whispered, his eyes wide.
"Two-Gun, I think you need bigger pistols," Hatt added.
* * *
"Engage space drive!" Spectre yelled as the boat lurched towards the cliff.
"Space drive, aye!" the pilot said as the boat started to tip.
"Sound brace!" the CO said.
"All hands, All hands," the XO said, keying the 1-MC. "Brace for impact!"
* * *
"Move, move!" Lieutenant Tony Berisford shouted. The tall, slender and homely Second Platoon leader had come up through Marine OCS. Like all the junior officers in Recon, he had prior experience as a platoon leader, in his case in the 3rd MEU. But this was the first time he'd seen a giant octopus try to eat a submarine. He responded pretty well, nonetheless.
"Engage the tentacles," he said. "Careful. Don't hit the boat."
* * *
Candle-Man had been in reserve, backing the rest of the platoon. Like everyone else he'd been watching the science teams moving across the savannah until the shrill scream from Lovelace. But when he saw the tentacles dragging their ride home off the cliff, it was pretty clear what he had to do.
He'd started sprinting towards the beast, whose shell was just visible peeking over the edge of the cliff. As soon as he got to where he was pretty sure he could shoot it without grapping up the boat he'd taken a knee and engaged with his minigun.
The 7.62 mm rounds, though, just sank into the massive tentacle without any apparent effect. Shifting to where the juncture with the shell was visible, just over the edge of the cliff, wasn't any better. The large, powerful rounds just sank in and disappeared. Oh, there were chunks of flesh blowing off and violet blood splashing in the air but . . .
He didn't notice the tentacle descend on him from above . . .
* * *
Staff Sergeant Summerlin winced as Chandler was picked up and slammed repeatedly on the ground. He'd started for the thing just behind Chandler and was only about ten meters away when the thing picked up his teammate. The tentacle that had Chandler was at least three meters thick and clearly powerful, since the refractory Wyvern armor popped and smashed at the impacts. After several fast smacks, like a sea otter cracking a clam on a rock, Chandler's battered and blood-streaming armor was flicked through the air to drop over the side of the cliff. There was a crunching sound as the tentacle reached farther out.
Summerlin started backing up, fast, as the tentacle descended. He was on full rock and roll with the mini on his shoulder as the tentacle dropped and he could see the mini blowing chunks out of it, but . . .
* * *
"Grapp!" Berisford shouted as first Chandler then Summerlin were turned into Wyvern au tere. "Team Support Gunners; Open fire. Clear that thing off so we can—"
He stopped talking as the boat slid over the side of the cliff. The tentacle that had taken two of his platoon to the depths followed.
"Never mind."
* * *
"Space drive on-line!" the pilot said as the boat hit the water at an angle. Everyone was thrown to the side but the pilot was strapped into his seat.
"Full power," Spectre ordered, his arm wrapped around a stanchion. "Blow all ballast! Unfurl the propellers! Give me everything!"
The boat suddenly lurched, but downwards, then slammed into the rock wall. Up, down, SLAM! Up, down, SLAM!
"Kill the power!" Weaver screamed. "Quit trying to get away!"
"What?" the CO yelled. "Are you nuts!"
"It's trying to kill us!" Weaver yelled as the boat hit the rocks again. An alarm klaxon started chattering in the distance.
"Leak in section forty-six!" the XO said.
"Kill all power!" the CO said. "Silent running!"
"All hands," the XO ordered over the 1-MC. "Silent running."
* * *
As soon as the beast stopped struggling, the leviathan took it deeper. With both vestigial lungs and much more functional gills, the giant crabpus could survive under water whereas prey like this could not.
It settled into a volcanic crevice and wrapped its arms around its prey, pecking away with its mandibles. It wasn't really hungry, but usually there were some legs sticking out to snack on. So far, nothing . . . When it got hungry enough, it would take the trouble to crack the beast open and eat the juicy insides.
* * *
"Neither laser will bear," Lieutenant Souza said quietly. The tactical officer was not quite sweating. "And we can't use the torps or missiles. They're designed for space battles."
The CO had gathered the command team and the remnants of the science team in a meeting. The thing hadn't really tried to crack the boat, yet. When it did, things were going to get bad.
The flooding had been stopped and the boat was functional, if at a cant. But they had to get away from the damned sea monster before they could fly.
"I'm surprised the space drive couldn't pull away," Weaver said. "But when we stopped trying to fly, it stopped trying to kill us. I call that a tie if not a win."
"Dr. Robertson has some poisons," Dr. Beach said, his brow furrowing. "But I'm not sure which would work on this thing. And then there's the matter of getting them . . . emplaced."
"The thing ate Wyverns like they were candy," Miller said, flexing his jaw. "And there ain't but two Wyvern qualified people onboard anymore. I'll go."
"I don't think poisons will work," Weaver said. "But, yeah, it looks like a Wyvern job. We're just going to have to be . . . sneaky."
"What's this 'we' maulk, White Man," Miller said, shrugging. "If not poison, then we blow that sucker up. Maybe the minis weren't doing much to it, but you put some octocellulite on that thing and it's going to go up like a fish with an M-80 in its gut."
The plastic explosive was an updated version of the venerable Composition Four. Named for the eight tightly packed chemical bonds that gave it its explosive "punch," it was about twice as powerful as C-4 or Semtek.
"Oooo," Miriam said. "That's not nice!"
The linguist and Mimi had been called in as part of the "science" team. The CO was beginning to regret the decision.
"If you have any suggestions, Miss Moon," Spectre said, controlling his temper. "We'd love to hear them. But we can't implement the chief's suggestion. There isn't any octocellulite onboard."
"What?" Miller said. "I mean, 'What, sir?' "
"Chemical explosives were deemed too unstable," Bill said dryly.
"Wait," Miller said. "We've got quarkium on-board and a space drive that, if you hit it with a spark, can wipe out a solar system. But we don't have octocellulite?"
"I was in the meeting," Weaver said. "You should have heard me scream. It was the last meeting we told NASA about."
"Holy crap," Miller moaned. "Who is running this Navy?"
"Next time I'll put up a stronger argument," the CO said. "In the meantime . . . Yes, Miss Jones, you have a suggestion?"
"No," Mimi said, nudging Miriam. "But Miss Moon does."
"No . . ." Miriam said, ducking her head.
"Go ahead," Mimi said. "You can do it."
"Please, Miss," the CO said, as politely and calmly as possible. "If it would help . . ."
"Tickle it," Miriam said in a very small voice.
"Tickle it?" the XO said, laughing.
"There's a patch on the underside," Miriam said, looking up and going from half crying to furious at the laugh. "In experiments, applied gargalesthesia to a specified nerve point rendered the subject crabpus immobile for a measured period of four seconds. During that period its appendages became limp and flaccid, Commander White. It would allow the boat to escape, which is, as I understood it, the purpose of this meeting."
"Gagala . . ." the CO said. "What?"
"The technical term for tickling," Dr. Beach said. "Actually the sensation of tickling rather than the act. Interesting suggestion."
"This was more like a stroke or a rub," Miriam said. "Applying a strong stroking pressure to the area may cause the creature to release th
e boat. Crabs have the same reaction. It's apparently something to do with reproduction. But it should go to sleep for a few seconds. And it won't have to be blown up like a 'fish with an M-80 in its guts.' Oooo!"
"So, my mission," Miller said, leaning forward, rubbing his forehead and looking at the conference table. "And let me get this straight. My mission is to get in my little Wyvern. Go out under pressure underwater, which I'm not sure the Wyvern's been certified for. Try not to get eaten by a beast that's already crunched at least three suits. And stroke that little crab in a sensitive spot related to reproduction?"
"Sounds like," Weaver replied, clearing his throat.
"In my twenty-three years as a United States Navy SEAL, I never could have envisioned . . . But, hell, all the Marines are gone so I guess if somebody's got to go stroke a crab's . . ."
"And I think we need to do this," Weaver said. "That's a big crab. It's gonna be a big spot. And, frankly, sir," he continued, looking at the CO. "I think we're gonna need some tools."
"Right," the CO said, his eyes wide. "A giant vibrator?"
"We are going to need something that we can . . . gargalize this thing's . . . plate with, sir," Weaver said.
The CO opened and shut his mouth for a moment, then looked at the chief of boat.
"Chief?"
"Yes, sir?" the chief asked stoically.
"Make it so."
"Knew you were gonna say that, sir," the COB said with a sigh.
* * *
"We need to gargalize this species' pad so it will release the boat," the chief of boat said, looking at the group gathered in the missile room.
The COB wasn't a tech guy. He'd come up through, of all things, the supply department. But he knew the submarine service. And when you had a really knotty problem, the machinist mates were the guys to brainstorm with. Machinist mates hardly realized that there was a box.
But they had very small vocabularies.
"Gargalize?" Sub Dude asked. "You want us to make it gargle?"
"It means tickle it," the COB said tightly. "More like rub its tummy. There's a sensitive patch down there . . ."
The good thing about the machinist mates, the COB had to admit, was that they were perfectly fine with having a technical discussion of tickling a giant crab while standing around on a deck that was canted at a twenty-degree angle, deep under water, with leaks all over the ship, while said crab was trying to eat the boat.
"Like a crab?" Red asked. "Isn't that related to breeding or something?"
"I don't think anybody's ever proven that," Sub Dude argued, sucking his teeth. "I think that's more like a hypothesis. The last time I read a study on it . . ."
The bad thing was that keeping them on topic was nearly impossible. . . .
"It doesn't matter!" the COB shouted. "We just need something to rub its damned tummy. Something big!"
"I'm sure we can blage something up," Sub Dude said.
"God, I hate that term," the COB moaned.
"How about a mop?" Red asked. "I know there's a mop around here somewhere . . ."
"Wait!" Tchar said, waving his arms. "I have just the thing!"
The Adar darted to the end of the canted missile compartment and dove into his quarters. The Adar quarters took up about ten percent of the total mission specialist section and was on the lowest floor, opening on the missile compartment. It was the only way he could get to the engineering room.
He emerged a moment later with two large flat mops. The heads were about a meter across, bright orange and had the logo of a noted cleaner on the bottom. The handle was about a meter and a half long and clearly designed to extend.
"Vibro mops!" Tchar said, proudly, holding them up. "Free with your order of the Mono Kitchen Knife Set! Only twenty-nine, ninety-five for seven monomolecular kitchen knives and a free Vibro Mop, guaranteed to clean even the messiest kitchen floor!"
"Why do you have two?" Red asked, scratching his head.
"The first set of knives did not cut through a diamond as they promised," Tchar said. "So I ordered another set to try it again."
Tchar fit right in with machinist mates.
21
It's NOT Two-Gun Mojo.
It's NOT.
"Holy grapp, the boat's gone," Gunga-Din said.
"We are so grapped," Bischel added. "First a damned crabpus eats Berg's armor then another one eats the grapping boat?"
"Stay frosty," Onger snapped. "And watch your sectors. Until the Skipper says we can panic, we don't panic."
"Sergeant, our ride just got eaten," Bisch pointed out. "I think it's a perfect time to panic!"
"Can it," Gunnery Sergeant Frandsen growled. "Panicking isn't going to get nobody home. There's no proof the boat's destroyed. Until we're sure it's gone, we just assume it's going to come back up. It's a submarine."
"Doctors," MacDonald said over the open freq. "All things considered, I think we should withdraw."
"Yes," Dr. Dean said. "But what about the boat. . . ."
"That is not a discussion for right now," the Marine ground out.
"We need to withdraw," Dr. Robertson said. "But there's a problem."
The large herbivores from the south were nearly opposite their position, skating wide of the human contingent. The large plates on their back were about ten meters across on the largest, but the creatures ranged down to "babies" that were only the size of rhinos. Instead of the relatively long and slender tentacles of most of the species, their legs were short and stumpy, holding them no more than a couple of meters off the ground.
"Back up into the longer grass?" MacDonald asked, switching to a discreet frequency.
"I don't think that's a good idea, either," Julia said, a tone of worry in her voice. "They're feeding on the same sort of grass. But there's a fringe that runs along the forest. They don't eat that."
"Poison?" MacDonald asked.
"No," Julia said. "I think they're afraid of something in the forest."
* * *
The pack had been waiting patiently for the big herbivores to pass. They had shifted, slightly, when the herd of bipeds had crossed the open area. If they got to the edge of the grass, they were prey. The pack knew its dash distance and the speed of their prey. If the bipeds moved to the edge of the grass, they could get them.
But the big herbivores had moved away from the bipeds, fearing that which they did not understand. They were out of range. And the pack was hungry.
Hungry enough for one of the younger members to lose her patience and dart from cover.
"Movement!" Prabhu screamed. "Oh, Holy Vishnu!"
While not as big as the herbivores, the individual pack members were nearly three meters across the shell and two meters high on their long tentacles. Compared to Jaenisch's Crab Lion, these were more like Crab Tyrannosaurs.
Prabhu fired low, scything into the tentacles and trying to cut the giant predators down. But it was a losing battle. . . .
* * *
"Back!" MacDonald shouted. "First Platoon, hold position! Third, pull back and prepare to give cover fire! SF, get the scientists out of here!"
* * *
"Go, go!" Runner yelled, pushing the scientist towards the cape.
The herbivores had started to panic, lumbering into a run southwards, some of the bigger members breaking off to face the predators as the young shifted away from the threat.
The scientists were going to have to run right through them.
* * *
As the mandible crunched down around his middle and the armor started to smoke and buckle, Prabhu let out another scream, this time of rage.
"I am created Shiva, the Destroyer!" he shouted, sticking the muzzle of the minigun between the mandibles. "Die you mothergrapper!"
The stream of 7.62 mm bullets tore the monster's brains apart and the mandibles separated but containment had been breached and Arun could smell the stink of the enzyme burning through his armor as he fell.
Onto his back. As the pack closed.
> "Oh, grapp me," Arun muttered as one of the mandibles bit down, ripping out his round feed. "I hope the next life is better than this one . . ."
* * *
"Around or through, Dr. Robertson?" Runner asked as they approached the defensive line of massive crabpus.
"Around," Robertson said, panting. "You do not want to get near an angry elephant!" She swiveled her sensors to the rear where the line of predators had hit First Platoon and saw a Wyvern tossed through the air.
Dr. Dean was out in front of the rest of the party, having taken an early lead. And he wasn't interested in professional biological input.
"Dr. Dean," Runner shouted. "Go around them!"
"Grapp . . . you," Dean panted. "I'm not going to get caught by . . ."
As he tried to pass between two of the huge crabpus, one lifted a massive foot and stamped down. The crunch was clearly audible through the armor.
"Aaaaagh!"
"There goes our geologist," Runner said. "This is going to look great on my evaluation report."
"I'm sure Mimi can fill in," Dr. Robertson said. "Go north. Away from the rest of the herd."
* * *
"Gunny!" Bischel shouted as the majority of the pack passed the fallen Hindu and charged into the Marines. "The grapping rounds are bouncing off!"
"Fire low, into their legs," Gunny Frandsen ordered, moving forward in support.
"Alpha, move right," Lieutenant Dorsett said, calmly. The six foot three "Mammoth" was a graduate of the Naval Academy in Annapolis and wasn't about to let something like a charging band of invulnerable, elephantine, alien, predatory crabpus break his smooth. "Lay in defilading fire on the predators. Bravo, Charlie, hold position to screen . . ."
* * *
"Grapping DIE already!" Bisch shouted as the pack closed. He was pouring cannon fire into the pack but except for accidentally blowing off a couple of legs it wasn't slowing them down any. One finally dropped back, too wounded to continue the assault, but . . .
"Onger!"
* * *
The sergeant's ammo counter was dropping like a waterfall as he poured out four thousand rounds per minute of quarter-inch high-velocity fire, but the damned rounds were just bouncing off.
He'd slowed one down by hitting its legs but that was luck as much as anything. Gunga-Din had gotten one and two more had been put down by the combined fire from Alpha and Bravo but they were still coming. On Earth, predators would be turned by the sound of the fire, they'd quit attacking, they'd leave! These things just kept coming. . . .