It was a pretty day, though, and even Irvin wasn’t immune. The labor was strenuous, but it was good work with demonstrable results. There was a general feeling of accomplishment and a satisfaction that, hard as things had been, they were almost done. The dangerous chore of bringing fresh water from the interior, mixing it with seep distilled aboard Toolbox, and stowing it on the sub was complete. The even more hazardous task of laying in fresh provisions was almost done as well, and meat and fish were drying under several sheds on the beach. A work party was even mixing paint so they could “doll the old boat up a little” before she was “recommissioned” into this new United States Navy.
“Those tails are starting to smell good,” Irvin said. He glanced at his watch. “We’ll call all hands ashore to lunch in fifteen minutes. Make sure plenty goes out to Toolbox.”
Tex nodded. He’d emerged as Laumer’s de facto exec, even though he’d only been a radioman before. He had the aptitude, organizational skills, personality, and frankly, stamina for the job. Also, since S-19’s radio would never work again, aside from his work on the electrical systems and a better wireless transmitter than Captain Reddy had been able to supply them with, he’d just stepped into the role. He knew the boat as well as Irvin did by now, and he could lead.
“Aye, aye, sir,” he replied. “I’ll announce lunch with the collision alarm!” he said.
“I thought it didn’t work.”
“It will now,” Tex said, grinning.
Irvin grinned too. He didn’t even ask what Tex had done to fix it. It might have been a loose wire or a corroded connection. They’d all gained a greater respect for the boat they’d been repairing than they’d ever had before. She was old and ridiculously obsolete, but she was a tough old girl, and most of her problems stemmed from age and the neglect she’d suffered since being stranded. “Carry on,” Irvin said.
Tex was about to descend the ladder into the control room when the distant mountain emitted a great, rolling, cacophonous belch, followed by an earsplitting roar.
Stunned, Irvin noticed that ’Cats on the pier had already begun reacting to something they saw in the direction of the mountain, even as the terrible blast buffeted them. He turned and looked for himself. The sky to the south was black, except for a massive, roiling, gray cloud—headed right at them.
“Sound ‘collision,’ ‘general quarters,’ or whatever you can that’s loud enough to hear!” he shouted. His voice seemed small, far away. He turned toward the workers on the shore and on the pier, waving his arms over his head and yelling as loud as he could: “All hands! In the boat! Drop whatever you’re doing and get in The boat!” Sid Franks saw him, whether he heard him or not, and began shoving ’Cats off the pier in the direction of the submarine. Many were too stunned to move, fixated with horror. This was not another ash fall like they’d seen before; this was a dense, boiling, wall of ash, thundering toward them at an impossible speed. Irvin jumped down on the deck and raced across the forward gangplank that connected the boat to shore. As soon as he left it, he couldn’t hear any of the alarms Tex had lit off on the sub.
He ran among the cooks and other work details on shore, rounding them up and gesturing at the sub. A new roar began to grow, different from the first but no less terrifying. His vision was growing dim. For an instant, he was alone. Midshipman Hardee grabbed his sleeve, tugging him toward the boat. His mouth was moving, but he made no discernible sound. Irvin looked around, saw ’Cats sprinting toward them from the pier, but everyone else was scampering across the gangplanks, tails high in terror, and disappearing down every open hatch. He let Hardee pull him along and soon they were both running. The gangplank bounced beneath their feet and they paused a moment while those in front waited to drop down the hatch. To the north, the day still seemed as before: a clear, almost cool blue sky, filled with patchy clouds. Turning to the south, they saw that the ash cloud, or whatever it was, had consumed the island. It was nearly upon them. Hardee got his attention; the hatch was clear. Irvin shoved Hardee ahead of him, then dropped down into the packed, sweltering control room.
“Franks and his detail are still outside,” he gasped, surprised that he could suddenly hear himself. The roar was still immense, but muted now.
“Clear the control room!” Tex bellowed. “Fore and aft, off you go! Maneuvering watch, stand by your stations,” he added. Just in case.
“Seal the boat, all but the forward hatch!” Irvin shouted. “That’s where Sid’s guys’ll make for. Secure the starboard engine!” They’d been running it for the charge. “Close main induction!”
The ’Cat stationed in front of the telltale “Christmas tree” panel turned, blinking frantic apology. “Board not all green! I not know why not all green!”
“There’s holes in the boat—we know that,” Tex said. “The forward hatch is still open, for one.” Sealing the boat for submergence had received even less priority than the port diesel, since no one had ever envisioned any eventuality that would make them take her down again. They still didn’t want to do that, but they had to breathe. Nothing could breathe in what they’d seen coming.
Something banged dully against the conn tower above, and almost immediately other things began raining against the steel like hail.
“Up scope!” Irvin demanded. The undamaged number one periscope slid upward and he grabbed the handles and twisted it south, peering into the eyepiece. “Oh my God,” he murmured, flinching when something trailing smoke, about the size of a Buick, plummeted past the periscope and splashed alongside. Smaller objects were striking the hull continuously now. The world was gray-black. The roiling mass was here. Huge trees flew before it like grass clippings, igniting like matches as they tumbled in its path. He cringed at the sight of flaming meteors of debris. He’d known no one could breathe in what was coming, but he hadn’t expected the sheer force and heat. He watched the shelters, tents, and other things they’d considered home on the beach simply disintegrate in fiery swirls as the periscope lens began to blur.
“Down scope!” he yelled. “Everybody hold on!”
The only audible blow was a massive rushing sound, but S-19 heeled over like a great hand had reached down and simply pushed her conn tower into the sea. Bodies fell atop one another, yelling, screaming, chittering in panic. Shrieks reverberated through the boat. The simple fact about submarines is that there are no soft, padded places anywhere in them. S-19 didn’t even have rack cushions anymore. Irvin clung to the periscope chains—like those of a giant bicycle—as everyone on the port side tumbled to starboard. A ’Cat smashed against him, almost breaking his nose and his grip, before falling soundlessly away. The boat groaned and Irvin felt a juddering, thudding movement. The lights flickered, but never went out, except for those that were smashed by windmilling arms or legs. He watched it all in a kind of surrealistic daze. Somehow, he knew the boat was moving; he expected her to roll all the way over and tumble like a log, but she didn’t—quite. He became too disoriented even to speculate on what was happening outside—how they were moving, where, and how fast. With a sudden sickening sense of loss, he thought briefly about the scoop boats and Toolbox. The hail-like sound against the hull grew louder, heavier, and the boat heaved again.
More shrieks reached his ears, cries of panic and surprise joined those of pain, and he realized it had jumped way beyond “sweltering” in the control room. Of course it’s hot, he thought. The ash cloud had obviously been propelled by a massive burst of gas from the volcano! “Flood the trim tanks!” he cried, knowing he couldn’t do it himself and hoping someone could who knew how. They’d had the boat riding high and empty of all but fuel as they worked on her and cleaned her out. The fuel in her bunkers was probably the only reason she wasn’t rolling right now. “Flood auxiliary, flood fore and aft!”
“Flooding all variable trim, aye!” came a pained response. Shortly, even as the hail continued, S-19 began to right herself. God, it was hot! Irvin could barely breathe. The panting of Lemurians was almost as l
oud as the roar outside. He looked at the status board. Mostly green now.
“Flood her down,” he said. “We’ve got to get her hull beneath the water before we cook!” He had no idea where they were, whether they were still in the depression they’d excavated around the sub or had been swept into the lagoon. Either way, they didn’t have any choice.
“We can’t take her to the bottom, sir,” came a coughing voice from behind him. It was Sandy Whitcomb.
“No, but we can take her down until the pressure hull’s under, at least.” The deck was almost level now, and he lurched for the Kingston valves. “C’mon, Sandy. Flood main ballast two-thirds.” He wiped blood from his eyes. Somehow, he’d conked his forehead. Maybe it had been the ’Cat that hit him? “We’re going to have to guess at this a little,” he cautioned. “She’s not trimmed at all, and I never expected to let water in her again! We just didn’t work on that stuff!” Theoretically, they should be able to partially flood the ballast tanks and hold the boat with the main deck awash, but with no reports from the rest of the boat, they had no idea if she was leaking or not. “Stand by to adjust the trim,” he added. He saw a ’Cat who seemed to be recovering her composure. “Get a report from all compartments,” he ordered. “See—” he started coughing and had to force himself to stop. “See if we’re leaking anywhere! Assemble damage-control parties. Damn it, this is the Navy! Shit like this happens!” He paused to consider the absurdity of his comment, but shook it off. “We’ve got injured in here! There’ll be injured everywhere. Tex? Where’s Tex?”
“Here, Skipper!” Tex appeared in the hatchway to the forward berthing space. “I got swept along with the tide. Jesus, what hit us? The whole boat looks like a stock trailer flipped.”
“Any leaks forward?”
“Torpedo room’s taking some water, but it won’t sink us. Everybody’s pretty banged up, but they’re shaking it off. Lots of injured. What hit us?” he repeated.
Irvin shook his head, wiping at his forehead again. He wished he knew. He hated not knowing what was happening outside. That was one thing about submarine duty in general that he’d never been keen on, but in this case, that limitation had doubtless saved their lives. It was still incredibly hot, but as the boat settled, she righted, and at least it stopped getting hotter. “I have no idea. I’ve never seen anything like it. That wall of ash, sure, but it packed a hell of a punch.”
“What about Toolbox?”
“I don’t know,” Irvin said, but he was pretty sure. He coughed again and noticed for the first time a kind of haze filling the compartment. “Did Franks’s guys make it?”
“Some did,” Tex reported tonelessly. “Franks didn’t.”
Irvin nodded. He’d known that too, before he even asked. Sid Franks would have been the last down the hatch. He might have shut it himself.
“Okay,” Irvin said. “We’ve got work to do. We had three corpsmen—if they’re not casualties themselves. Try to get things squared away with the wounded and see if you can get some air moving in here.” He motioned to the ’Cat he’d been about to send to check the boat. “Lay aft and hurry back with a report. Check the comm in each compartment. After that, if you see anything you can fix that needs fixing, do it, and tell everyone else to do the same. We may be sitting here for a while.” He sighed. “I know you weren’t expecting it to be like this, but everyone aboard just became submariners today. That’s what we spend most of our time doing: fixing stuff.”
The wounded still cried out and others tried to treat them, but for the most part a quiet calm had settled over the rest of the panting ’Cats. Many were busy, mechanically performing repairs and other chores they’d been assigned. Others merely sat and waited. The boat was badly overcrowded and after almost six hours of being buttoned up, the hot air was growing stale. The “hail” had long since stopped outside and the roar had died away. Strange rumbling sounds, like a momentous stomach growling, still came through the hull from the island, propagated by the water that virtually covered them. Everyone had a fair assumption, based on their experience, of what had happened to everyone and everything not “fortunate” enough to have endured the hell aboard the submarine, but it was time to have a look. Irvin had put it off for a number of reasons, but he also believed the high-velocity ash and sand had actually begun scoring the periscope lens before he lowered the instrument. Now, the logy rocking of the hull and the comparative silence above convinced him it was time to take a peek.
“Up scope number one,” he said at last, and when the eyepiece rose, he looked first to the south, now almost directly astern. Judging by the compass, “south” was no longer on the port beam, and that had been his first confirmation that the boat’s position had been radically altered. He was stunned to see an almost clear sky where the black shroud had been before. The brisk prevailing wind had swept away the atmospheric evidence of Talaud’s catastrophic but apparently brief spasm, as if the fit had gone unnoticed by the rest of the world. Irvin somehow doubted that was the case. The blast had to have been loud enough to be heard in the southern Fil-pin Lands, at least. Still, the now evening sky seemed to have returned to normal, for the most part—if one didn’t count the smoke and streaming clouds of ash disappearing downwind of the moonscape that had once been a lush tropical island.
“God,” he whispered. The lens had definitely been etched, but he could still see well enough to experience a stab of vertigo, looking at the now utterly alien landscape. Literally, the only remaining landmark was the eerily altered outline of the now naked mountain. Absolutely nothing remained between his scope and the volcano but millions of stripped, smoldering tree trunks lying in ordered ranks, radiating outward from its flanks. In some places, the ash was heaped so deep that the trees resembled rebar beneath an incomplete pour of cement. No single living thing could be seen—no creature, no bird, no tenuous speck of greenery.
Hesitantly, he followed the scope around to where the bearing Toolbox should have lain and was again stunned—this time to realize how far across the lagoon the boat had been pushed. Judging by the gray, dusty, billowing hump of land he saw just a few hundred yards away—it was impossible to judge distances accurately anymore—S-19 now wallowed near the spot where Toolbox had last been seen. Sick, he thought he saw the smashed, smoldering skeleton of their tender high among the splayed trees of the north point. He couldn’t imagine any way any of Toolbox’s fine crew could possibly have survived. He gulped, realizing he’d done one thing right, purely by accident. Besides the heat, he suspected flooding her down was the only thing that had prevented S-19’s blackened, half-buried corpse from joining Toolbox back on that other beach. His eye stung and he spun the scope back to the south. “Get a load of this,” he said huskily, backing away and letting Tex have a look while he wiped his face with his bloody T-shirt again.
“Looks like the damn moon,” Tex whispered, mirroring Laumer’s own thoughts. Tex quickly relinquished the view to Hardee, who was cradling his left arm. The ’Cats in the control room went next, taking quick looks, their tails swishing rapidly in agitation.
The phone beside Irvin made its curious, distinctive, whirring whoop. Evidently they had internal comm again and he recognized the motor room circuit. He picked up the heavy Bakelite device and held it to the side of his face.
“Give me some good news, Sandy,” he said.
“This no Saan-dee,” jabbered the excited voice of the female ’Cat he’d sent aft so long ago now. “Maa-chin-ist Mate Saan-dee up to aasshole an’ elbow in hot water and no pitch hot for devil!”
“. . . What?”
“Staar-board shaaft bearing packing pop cork, spew guts, blow chow . . . we wet! Motors wet soon. We go up soon? Saan-dee say we need go up soon . . . now.”
Jeez. “We go up now,” Irvin assured her, unconsciously mimicking her pidgin. “Maneuvering watch, resume your stations,” he commanded loudly. “Blow main ballast! Prepare to open main induction.” He paused. “Belay that! Stand by to vent main induction w
ith high-pressure air.” He peered through the scope again. “Tex, assemble a topside detail, bandannas for the ash. Take them up through the aft crew’s berthing compartment with brooms—whatever you can think of. Make sure all other hatches and vents are clear before we open up the boat!”
“Aye, aye, Skipper.”
S-19’s tortured hull groaned around them as it lifted itself fully from beneath the protective water of the lagoon.
“Jesus H. Christ, Skipper!” Tex gasped, joining Irvin on the conn bridge. He’d finally removed his bandanna and the contrast between where it had been and the previously exposed skin was shocking. His eyes were red and streaming, leaving wet tracks in the pale dust around them. Gusts of wind created gray dust devils in the harsh, hellish twilight, but thankfully carried away more of the dark, dead ash coating the boat. All Irvin could do was nod appreciation for what Tex and his detail had accomplished. He was still too shocked to do much else.
Talaud Island, as he’d seen through the scope, had been incinerated. Thousands of fires smoldered upon it, brightening as the day faded, adding their choking smoke to the bitter ash that swirled and danced hotly across the unimaginable world that their island, their lagoon, had become. The lagoon itself was like a soupy mud wallow, heaving sluggishly with the dulled, exhausted waves that tried, even now, to cleanse it. Dead fish with poached, bulging eyes clotted the surface of the soup in their apparently endless millions, and charred, bloating corpses of land creatures bobbed in ghastly, unrecognizable clumps. Thankfully, they hadn’t seen any remains of the scoop-boat crew or the hundred and ninety or so souls from Toolbox. . . .
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