Rising Tides d-5

by Taylor Anderson

  “Captain Rajendra,” Lelaa said ominously, “we have worked together despite our differences, but do not imagine those differences do not still exist. You really must cease your constant objections and observe the obvious. Add to my earlier argument that we cannot secure the down-hauls within the boat if we raise it from the ground. Where would you have us secure them? To the trees here at this level, where any passing creature might gnaw them in two? All aboard.”

  Rajendra couldn’t fault Lelaa’s logic, and whereas Silva had promised not to “hurt” him, Lelaa had made no such pledge. She had simply swallowed her anger and done as she had to. Her reminder of a possible reckoning was probably more intimidating than Silva’s harangues because it was the first she’d made in a long time, and she also had a more untainted claim on his honor as far as he was concerned. Besides, he harbored a real, secret… racial… fear of the physically diminutive but powerful-alien-Lemurian captain. He made no more objections.

  Working together creditably enough-despite their differences, most of the “muscle” were seamen after all-they slowly, carefully hoisted the battered longboat into the sky between the two trees. There was a bizarre unreality about the whole situation that escaped none of them, but it was indeed their only chance. As the final rays of the sun surrendered to the sea, they saw the water beyond the trees, within the breakers, almost working with humping, splashing shapes, eerily void of color until they gained the shore, and then only briefly until they absorbed the darkening shades of their new surroundings. About thirty feet above the ground-high enough, they hoped-they secured the down-hauls to cleats on the boat’s gunwales. Then they sat quietly, staring at the starlit transformation of the island they’d learned to hate but of necessity called home.

  “God a’mighty,” Silva whispered. “It’s like you threw the manhole cover off a sewer an’ looked down on a million man-eatin’ pollywogs swarmin’ in there.”

  As usual, he was exaggerating, but not by much. Lawrence had been right. Evidently, they’d made it just in time. They never would have survived another night on the ground. The shiksaks had come to Yap.

  “It’s a kind of hell,” Rebecca said, and Sister Audry drew her close.

  “How long will it last, Lawrence?” Sandra asked, also whispering. It seemed appropriate. All the creatures on the island, in the trees, had gone silent except for the bellowing, grunting, roaring shiksaks themselves.

  “I don’t recall,” Lawrence hissed back. “I stayed in the trees, hungry, thirsty… I don’t know. Long days and nights.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Talaud Island

  I rvin Laumer leaned on the coaming of S-19’s squat conn tower and cast a suspicious eye toward the brooding volcano that increasingly inhabited the expedition’s thoughts. Nobody trusted it, and everyone felt convinced it was “up” to something, but the morning had dawned on a beautiful day, the kind that scoured away stress and fear with its simple charm alone. A brisk, cooling breeze, almost magically free of humidity, stirred the tree fronds and rippled the lagoon. High, wispy clouds moved across an otherwise brilliantly blue sky. The mountain near the center of the island seemed to have simmered down. Only the slightest trace of steam vented from the high, distant peak, and for once, its flanks weren’t shrouded with mist and the workers could see the scars of its recent tantrums. The ground still moved, but not with the violent, jolting shudder it had for many days; now it was more like a steady, sullen grumble than anything else Irvin could compare it to.

  “I think we’ll have her refloated today,” Tex Sheider predicted optimistically, appearing beside him. The shorter man scratched his nose with a kinked piece of wire, the braided insulation charred.

  The day had clearly affected the man’s mood, but he might be right, Irvin thought. “Technically, S-19’s been ‘refloated’ for weeks now,” he pointed out. “Ever since the basin filled up.”

  “Yeah, but I meant floating free,” Tex explained. Irvin nodded. He’d known what he meant. He gazed out at USS Toolbox, securely moored in the lagoon. A pair of boats they’d lashed together with a flat deck between them, like a catamaran, was pulling for the beach laden with the big scooplike device they’d fashioned to dredge the sub clear of the sand. The scoop would be dropped near the submarine, and Toolbox would drag it into the lagoon with a pair of reinforced capstans operated by nearly her entire crew. A messenger line marked the scoop’s position, and when it reached a floating platform, the scoop was hoisted and laid back upon the deck of the twin boats. The thing was a stone bitch to row, and it was hard work, especially against the wind like today, but the crews that rotated the duty didn’t seem to mind that much. They were proud that their labor revealed the most measureable sign of progress toward releasing the sub from the beach. Irvin was proud of them, and by his estimate they were nearly done.

  They could probably get the sub out now, by fending off aft and pulling her out nose first, but it would be dangerous work. The spiderlobsters had returned the night before, and they had no idea if any remained in the basin or not. The scary-looking half-skinny-lobsterhalf-spider critters weren’t the menace they’d been when they first appeared. Now that the crew knew they couldn’t climb up on the boat, when they’d come back a few times after the first terrifying battles, most of the crew on the shore simply took refuge on the sub. This time, they’d contented themselves with shooting a few that scuttled around on the beach, tearing at equipment, or some that seemed intent on wrecking the little “fitting-out pier” that Carpenter’s Mate Sid Franks was working on. They needed the pier to finish preparing the boat for sea once they got her loose. Even now, ’Cats were boiling spider-lobster tails for lunch, and savory smells reached Irvin’s nose now and then. The creatures had changed from terror to treat. They were still dangerous in the water, though, and the jet of seawater they “spat” could easily knock an exposed worker into the sea. It would take very exposed workers, standing in water up to their knees on the stern of the boat, to protect her delicate screws. Better to let the dredge handle it.

  Irvin saw Franks wave at him from the pier, and he waved back. Franks and a detail were planking it now. If all went well, they might have S-19 free of her enclosure before nightfall. Once that was achieved, they’d inch her toward the pier with her electric motors, tie her up, and begin final fitting-out for their long-overdue and much-yearned-for departure. They might even get the port diesel up and running before they set out, but Irvin didn’t consider it a priority compared to so many other ongoing projects. They had nearly a full load of fuel and the starboard engine ran fine, with every apparent intention of continuing to do so. Right now, it was a matter of “okay, propulsion works well enough, let’s concentrate on what we need that doesn’t work at all”-like sonar, comm, the stove, the crew’s head, etc.

  It would be nice to have the port diesel because, unlike newer boats that used four big engines just to charge their batteries, and had electric motors for all propulsion, S-19 cruised faster and more efficiently on the surface in direct drive. With her starboard engine in direct drive, she could still generate enough electricity to run the port motor, but the trip to Maa-ni-la would take longer, and with only two-thirds of her batteries after that long-ago depth charging, they wouldn’t have much electrical reserve.

  Still, Irvin Laumer didn’t consider the port engine as important as getting the boat away from Talaud Island as fast as he could. Talaud was a perilous place, full of dangerous creatures, and if, on days like today, the dangers felt more remote, just a little dimmer, that damn volcano always seemed ready to focus them considerably. As quiescent as it was now, it always rumbled a little, so no one was about to forget it entirely. Besides, Laumer wanted back in the war. He wanted back among the men who’d have to consider him an officer of considerable resourcefulness now. An equal. He’d been set an almost insurmountable task, and he was finally on the verge of accomplishing it. Every day that passed was another opportunity for his success to slip away.

  It wa
s 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 loud 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.