His dismay was transformed into horror when the creature heaved the forward part of its body down like a landslide onto the barge. The creature was in a fury due to the red gash in its neck, caused by one of the three-inchers.
The tug bucked wildly. The men at the starboard gun were catapulted over the side. Garrett heard their screams even as he was flung against the wall of the pilothouse. While men were lost, the tug gained: a quarter ton of coal, raining down like black hail on the deck as the barge and tug swatted together and then apart in a geometric spasm.
"The barge is sinking!" a marine yelled as the creature slid off into the water. "We'll have to cut loose!"
"The hell we will!"
Like an omen, Amos Macklin appeared on deck. Besides the fishermen manning the engines, he and Garrett were the only sailors on board. Outside of Hart and Singleton, the rest were marines. He had refused to allow the fanatical young man from the ill-fated whaler to come along. It was bad enough hauling two civilians. When William Pegg insisted that he was fit enough to row, Garrett advised him that the only ships going back to the Florida were the Iroquois and a motor launch. There would be no rowing on the outward leg and he would be unable to help in any event. The young man's face fell and he seemed to disappear before their eyes.
"Mr. Garrett! That hit busted one of the tubes!"
Garrett slapped him on the shoulder. "Can you manage the helm? I have to go over the side."
Amos gaped.
"C'mon, lolly-banger! Can you take it?"
"I piloted a tug in Jacksonville for--"
"Good. Bring the port barge up on those collision mats fo'ard the Florida. Not those aft. Got it?"
There was no shame in Amos' fear. They were every man jack of them terrified to their bones.
"Aye, sir."
"You're a credit to your race. Hey! Jarhead! Hand me that ax. If I can't save the barge...."
The marine he was yelling at had an itch to put the ax in Garrett's head, but put it in his hand instead. Hamilton and Singleton came up and asked what they could do to help. "Stay out of my way!" Before they could protest, he was over the side.
"Goddamn!" he shouted the instant he hit the slope of coal.
"She's shipping water!" yelled a marine half-buried in the coal when he was knocked overboard. Garrett helped him finish digging out. His arm was broken. "Give us a boost here!"
Hands reached down from the tug and took hold of the marine. As he hefted the groaning man by the armpits, he noticed a slash of red on the side of the tug. The second marine had been crushed between the two vessels.
So much for him. Now for the barge.
Garrett took up the ax again and started up the hill. At least fifteen tons of coal remained on the barge. The ensign was loath to lose them. For every two steps, he slid back one as the coal shifted beneath him.
He heard the distinct ring of the engine room telegraph on the tug. Amos was stopping the engines in an attempt to keep the barge from taking on so much water.
His eyes seemed to go stark dry when he saw the whirlpool to starboard. Whenever the creature made a turn in the shallows, cyclonic galaxies appeared on the surface. He caught sight of a fin, then a snout.
"Oh!" came an involuntary shout when one of the three-inchers on the tug thumped, pummeling his ears with the abrupt concussion. From the Florida machine gun fire rained down.
Garrett was at the top of the hill of coal when the head erupted from the water and the great neck stretched out.
His body puckered like a walnut. He felt his whole being collapse. The creature appeared quickly, like a ghost popping from nowhere. It moved in like a picture screen falling over. Immediately, all his faith in the duff sauce vanished. He began burrowing into the coal. The hot fetid breath, the rank, innumerable dead, fell over him like a cerecloth. He lost coordination, legs and arms jerked spasmodically. He fell, rolling down the slope away from the tug. The creature followed his progress with an almost disinterested tilt of its neck. Looking up from the gunwale, Garrett noted a discolored patch of skin around the creature's jaw and suspected it was caused by shell‑blast. The third marine was nowhere in sight. He pressed his feet against the gunwale and shoved himself head-first into the coal. He was suffocating in an instant and had to pull out.
He squinted through the coal dust pasted to his face. He could feel the barge jerk repeatedly as the serpent bumped against it.
No more gunfire from the Florida, now but fifty yards away. It surprised the ensign that the gunners should be afraid of hitting him. Maybe they thought he could still save the barge.
A sudden calm came over Garrett--a numbness like the first moment of sleep. Shifting uneasily on the coal, he stood and raised his eyes. The creature stared back at him. It struck Garrett that the men in the ship had a grandstand view of what was happening. They had seen him grovel. They had witnessed his loss against Beck. Now he would make up for it‑‑show them what balls were all about. He recalled the boxer he'd seen as a boy dying of heart failure in the ring. A scrapper to the end. "Let's hear it, boys! Fanfare and epitaph!" Then he turned roundly on the beast and said, "Fuck you, and let's both go to hell."
The ax had fallen down the slope with him and lay half-buried near his feet. It had been his intention to hack the cables if the coal could not be saved, but the barge was no longer shipping water. The gunwale was indeed damaged, but coal had slid against it from the inside, in effect, shoring it up. He had to get out. Wishing he was already dead and free of worry, he pulled out of his hole and began climbing back the way he'd come, grabbing the ax as he went. His skin prickled. He knew the creature was still staring at him. He could smell its breath. It seemed to exhale an entire ancient catacomb from its lungs, a stench so awful Garrett retched. But he kept going.
"Okay, Mr. Pegg, let's see if your magic elixir really works." The sheer presence of the beast was like a heavy boulder on his back--a weight that suddenly increased.
A heavy thump sent Garrett sprawling. Shouting, almost screaming, he pushed up onto his knees and crawled--until a painful nudge sent him sprawling once again.
Twisting on his side, he found himself gaping at the creature's snout only inches away, saw the head flex with disgust when the creature caught a strong whiff of the duff sauce.
So William Pegg's Portuguese repellent actually worked! But how well? Dare he risk a swing of the ax? With infinite fear and caution, he rose and braced his feet as well as he could. He breathed like a man with a sack over his head. The creature's jaw was so massive he could not reach far enough beyond it to strike one of its eyes. But he could give its snout a good sting....
The barge abruptly lurched and listed. Garrett heard the tug's engines pick up.
The cables had been cut!
The Iroquois was pulling away.
Who had given the order? Amos? That galled. Condemned to his fate by an ebony steward.
He glanced at the ax in his hand and wondered what the hell could have possibly possessed him. He dropped it and began tunneling backwards into the coal, like a toad in the mud.
The creature watched him. It seemed almost thoughtful. It sniffed at Garrett again. There was a sudden, mighty sneeze.
The creature was gone by the time Garrett cleared the mucous from his eyes.
0643 Hours
The ocean had gonged resoundingly when the serpent pounded the barge. Midshipman Beck heard the muffled crack of wood, saw black curls of coal dust underneath the hull. He had no doubt it would smash the barge to flinders, as well as the tug.
Jesus, what's wrong with them up there? he wondered as he pulled at the guide rope for the hundredth time. He could think of a boatswain who was going to get his head knocked in once he was topside.
If he lived that long.
He saw the creature swoop away from the barge and screamed with frustration. The perfect opportunity for escape was gone.
The ocean pulsed. He found himself being rocked back and forth like a sea fan. When he tried to
turn, he was lifted off his feet by the current. An enormous brownish-green blur passed before him. The seabed twirled underneath him as he was stopped cold--then spun in the opposite direction. Metal creaked overhead as the Florida shifted above the vortex.
Played like a pendulum, Beck swung down and up as the creature made an elliptical orbit of the battleship. The wild movement was so unnerving he didn't notice when his air stopped.
Bright lights alternated with blank patches. The undersea world, already alien, became even less comprehensible. He listened for the click of the air valve and failed to hear it. He looked overhead for the ship's silhouette--and saw only sand and coral.
I'm turning a loop! he thought with fearful amazement.
Not for long. The lead shoes dragged him over and down. He was prone and falling when he doubled across a chimney of coral. Beck felt as though a raw bite had been ripped from his gut. Numb with pain, he could only watch helplessly as the sea bottom fell away. He could not decide if he was going in the right direction. To his right, he saw the creature--
No! It was the--
He slammed against the hull, his metal helmet banging like a bell. He saw the forward hawser hanging down not a foot away from him. He reached. Missed. As he drifted down, the chain sloped away, almost out of reach. Last-chance desperation gave him the strength to grab for it again. His gloved fingers locked on one of the links. As he drew himself to the hawser the tangled air hose yanked short. His head snapped back. Only the fact that the hawser was kept religiously clean allowed him to keep his grip. Even a hint of harbor slime would have caused his fingers to slip. He brought his legs up and wrapped them tightly around the thick chain. As he worked upwards, slack gathered in the line, making the ascent easier.
Still... no air. He saw the undulating glitter of the sun on the surface. Higher he pulled, the last breath of oxygen in his helmet spent. Limbs and lungs felt afire. His legs loosened. He could not kick. Only his arms could save him. And they were numb and pointless. He saw the vague shroud of death and shrugged inwardly. With mild astonishment he realized he could still work his hands. Might as well make one last push....
He broke the surface next to the ram. The realization that he was so close to staying alive spurred his panic. He reached for the fly screws on his helmet but could not get a grip. A dark veil covered his vision. He saw the ram an arm's length away. Encumbered and nearly asphyxiated, he might as well have been facing a chasm, but he noticed the movements of the creature were causing the ship to swing at its anchor. If he could time his move as the ram neared him....
There! He saw his moment and leapt. Landing, he immediately began sliding down the deadly snub nose. Sweet Jesus, he was underwater again!
His hands scooted down the slippery incline. For an instant, he was terrified he would slip off the end. But the ram leveled off and he was able to keep his hold. Crawling towards the prow, he again broke the surface. He slammed his faceplate against the upper slope of the ram. After three tries, the glass shattered.
The cuts on his face were like blessed snowflakes. He arched back, gasping deeply, as though trying to suck air off the horizon. He was given a start when he saw a ghastly giant staring down on him.
It was the Florida's bronze figurehead.
His laughter was cut short when he saw the body. What was left of the boatswain bobbed in the shadow of one of the sponsons. Only then did Beck realize how much more dangerous it was standing out on the diving platform than it had been to dive.
0646 Hours
When Gilroy came topside and saw Midway in the distance all the stories he'd ever heard of men jumping ship on some exotic isle swam through his imagination. In his haste he did not stop to consider the size of the refuge--that a handful of men could find him in less than a day, a full complement in less than an hour. His delusion made miles out of sandy yards. He could not wait to escape into the perceived hinterland.
What was that to starboard?
He went to the edge of the deck‑‑and for the first time saw the beast. It was twisting down, going eye‑to‑eye with Ensign Garrett on the barge. Gilroy felt as if the top of his head was coming off. Lord God, Lord Almighty, the golden scarab in the Almighty Flesh.
And there was the ensign‑‑damn fool trying to stare God down.
There could be only one reason for God to be on earth. Gilroy had no doubt of what would happen to him at the Second Coming.
He's come for me.
Looking at the damage around him, the crushed casements, the scorched superstructure‑‑and smelling the distinctive waft of death from the bodies still trapped‑‑Gilroy realized the Florida could not stand up to the creature. Of course! Who can stand up to God? He subdued the voice at the back of his mind. One cannot escape from God, either.
And there was his opportunity, right under his nose. The landing platform was out. Next to it was a small motor launch brought back by volunteers from Midway. The two men inside were working on the engine with frantic haste, though there was more fumbling than finesse in their mechanics. They were supposed to motor out and help transfer the cables from the barge. Their nervousness was understandable. On the landing stage were two other men holding ropes--as well as the remains of the three men who had tended the umbilicus and air pump engine that kept Beck alive.
Everyone else on the quarterdeck was preoccupied with events to starboard. That left Gilroy with only a handful of husky sailors to overcome.
All unsuspecting.
The force that urged him was not opium, but withdrawal from opium. His strength was sudden, unexpected. He felt as though two halves of his being, long separated, had rejoined. With wholeness came complete focus and utter concentration of purpose. In his mind he was already jumping out of the launch and wading ashore, smooth cool clam shells massaging his bare feet, sand squeezing between his toes. Only a few nonentities stood in his way.
He took up a monkey wrench left near a casement by a damage control team. Dashing to the aft gangway, he raced down the grated steps.
"Is it coming back?" one of the men on the landing asked.
Gilroy's answer was a blow from the heavy wrench that caved in the young man's skull. The other man on the stage made confused movements. Although the air pump belt was broken, the generator continued to chug, the belt whipping loosely, the exhaust snarling puffs of smoke. On the near side of the stage were two rifles. Gilroy dropped the wrench and swooped one up before the bluejacket on the landing could reach him. The way he drew back the bolt, the sailor could tell he was not going to waste time with a warning. As the gun came up, he leapt into the water. When the men in the boat saw him swinging in their direction, they followed suit.
To Gilroy's elation, the launch's engine was idling smoothly. Everything was falling into place. He cast off and started the launch in a wide semicircle abaft the Florida. He began to laugh. Perhaps some men were destined to escape their fate.
0702 Hours
The creature continued to orbit the Florida, the tug and barges like a one-man tribe besieging a wagon train. It was a bizarre, deadly‑looking ritual that the serpent frequently interrupted, coming in to nudge the tug or the loose barge.
The barge on which Garrett was stranded floated sluggishly away from the Florida. A few glimpses were caught of the ensign scrambling across the black hill of coal. The barge might take a long time sinking. Or it might suddenly plummet underwater. Either way, Garrett's situation was desperate. Twice the creature returned and nosed through the coal heap, as if reconsidering the ensign's palatability. Soon after, Garrett vanished from sight.
Three-inch fire from the tug pestered the creature intermittently, but did not dissuade it from giving the Iroquois a few rough shoves. Amos found it difficult enough handling the tug and its lopsided cargo. Every time he eased close to the Florida, the serpent pressed its brow to the larboard beam and nudged it away. Amos found it frightening--and fascinating. It was as if the creature was treating the tug and loose barge and the battl
eship like bowling pins, setting them up in just the right way--so it could knock them down in a preferred order. Its strength was amazing. The spokes of the wheel were forced out of his hands again and again, though the creature seemed to be giving them no more than a tap. At one point, he was thrown off the wheel so hard he was certain some of his hand bones were broken.
0713 Hours
Captain Oates was utterly mystified by the creature's behavior. Not attacking, not retreating. It was like the soul of a storm--on the verge of blowing itself out, then coming up again. He watched it carefully, searching for method.
The creature paused next to the ship and studied an object floating on the water. Oates focused his binoculars on it... and finally understood.
"Goddammit! Goddammit!"
The junior officers nearest him jumped back, startled by the almost maniacal ferocity of the captain's rage.
"Our own garbage! It's sniffing at us like a dog at a pail. Goddammit! Grissom! Grissom!"
The first lieutenant cleared his throat. "Aye, sir."
"Oh." Oates swept the perspiration from his face with an angry hand. "Notify the galleys: no more scraps over the side. Nothing. Not a bone, not a can."
"Does that include our dead, sir?"
Oates stared at him.
"Aye aye, sir."
Oates returned his attention to the tug and barge. Breakfast scraps were strewn in their lee. Whoever was piloting the tug was maneuvering the barge over rinds, bones, guts and whatever else was left over from the morning and the night before. All unsuspecting, they had been chumming the sea.
"Can't you bring that fo'ard six-incher to bear?" he demanded of the ordnance officer.
One of the midshipmen on the wing spoke, but Oates did not hear him. The creature had begun swinging towards the tug again‑‑but broke off abruptly. Its attention had been captured by the small motor launch speeding in the direction of the atoll.
At the Midway Page 48