At the Midway (63 page)

"Go ahead, take it.  You won't get a shock.  It's the antenna.  It's not attached to the battery."

Still, they balked.  They could see the antenna was attached to the wireless, and the wireless to the battery.  All one connection, right?

"Listen, you sons of bitches!  Take up that wire or you'll never see slack again!"

Hart let out a shout of delight. "Top Kick!"

Ziolkowski's litter had been set down in the shade of Mt. Pisgah.  He eyed Hart disparagingly.  Army or ex
-
Army was all the same to him.  But the civilian had convinced him his strange electronic stratagems were evil necessities.  There was no denying the bark of authority.  The marines picked up the wire.  To reinforce his command
-
-
unnecessarily
-
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he added, "Enderfall! Get your ass over there with them!  You aren't cut loose of me, yet."

The sergeant looked like a dying man.  In fact, looked like a shouting corpse.  Leaning back, he spotted a familiar figure limping towards the compound.  "Fritz!  Come on.  You aren't so banged up you can't hold some wire, too."

Toting a small water cask brought ashore by the landing party, Lieber walked over to the sergeant, took out a metal cup.  The cask was strapped over his shoulder.  Turning its small wood spigot, he filled the cup and handed it to Ziolkowski.  "Drink up, Top."

The sergeant glowered a moment, then took the cup and drank.  He was done in three gulps.  He held it up for more.  Lieber obliged.  The second drink did the trick.  The sergeant lay back, quenched.  With a nod, Lieber upended the cup on its little perch and walked away.

"Well, son of a bitch," said Ziolkowski lowly.  But exhaustion overcame him. He dropped back and closed his eyes.

Hart had enough men, in any event.  They spread out over the dunes, nervously holding the antenna over their heads.  At the end of the wire was Enderfall, still shaking from his close call in the lagoon
-
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and smarting over his near
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abandonment of the Top Cut.  The one courageous thing he'd tried to do in the Corps, and he'd turned chickenshit.  Like some ancient, quaking Aztec priest he faced the low sun, both arms raised.  Clouds gathered round the sun
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disk.  They gave off a premonitory glow.  Signs of war and sacrifice.

Ignoring the Top Cut's admonition to help Hart with the antenna, Lieber wove through the rubble and sat next to Ace. "Here you go."  He held out a cup.

"I don't think I can drink, Flitz."

"Well, let's try this."  He held the cup close to the Japanese' chin and dabbed water on his lips.

"That feels good."

"Good."

"I'm going to die."

"It doesn't look good, Ace."

The other fishermen had raised the beam off Ace's ankles, but when they tried to lift him they discovered he was pinned to the beam behind him.  During the bombardment a shell fragment had drilled through the back of the beam Ace was propped against, in effect nailing him down.  He'd felt the thump
-
-
strangely, however, no pain.  His would
-
be rescuers discovered how truly dire his situation was when they tried to pull him away.  It was then Ace felt what had happened to him and released an agonized scream.  They dared not make the attempt again for fear of making the wound worse.  They would have to cut the beam to either side of the fragment, then remove Ace to the
Florida
.  Since it might take a day to saw through the iron
-
like wood with the tools at hand, they concluded it would be best to bring in a steam
-
saw from the ship to do the job.  Then they could remove Ace to sick bay and remove the fragment surgically.

Problem was, until they knew all the sea serpents were dead, trying to return to the
Florida
would be tantamount to suicide.  It had been sheer luck that they had been able to make it to Sand Island in the first place.

On Mt. Pisgah, Hart began to key.

'HH TO FLOR STOP PRAISE THE LD STOP WE ARE STILL ALIVE.'

On the Cliffs of Time

Green Stripes' raw wound had evoked sorrow in the mother.  It would take many days before Green Stripes--as Green Stripes--would fade in her memory.  Only then would the corpse resting on the coral become proper meat for scavenging.  But the mother Tu-nel had never accepted the young male's identity.  He was a nuisance in her life, a stranger to be chased off whenever he became too importunate.  Wounded by the three-inch shell, his blood-smell filled the water.  The mother did not recognize him as a fellow-creature, but a meal.

She quickly hunted him down.  He had slipped through Gooney and Spit Islands and was charging through the ocean south of the atoll, trying to outrace the pain near his shoulder.  When he sensed the approach of the mother he planed in her direction.  She was making hunting sounds. He would tag along, as usual, and feed off the leftovers.  Hunger pains far exceeded the sting of his wound.

Something was odd about the hunt-pulse of the mother.  The sonic vibrations settled around his body, pinpointing the young male as the target.  Slowly, he began veering away.  When the pulse became stronger, there was no mistaking her intention.

Too late, he put on a burst of speed.  He was several miles from Eastern Island when the mother cut him off.  He let out a sound unfamiliar to the ancient ocean: pure Tu-nel fear.

The adult caught his right fin.  He was spun around in a huge arc, creating a whirlpool that sucked and cracked driftwood.  He struggled, but she held, until the fin was severed and he jinked wildly to the right.

Coming alongside the male, the mother attacked the rip in his hide.  She caught the edge of the wound.  As the male turned she was carried with him.  A ten-foot gash was torn in his side. Torn, red muscles dangled like massive chunks of bait, the young male chumming the ocean with his own body.

The mother sank her huge teeth into his throat.  After fifteen minutes of wild thrashing, hopeless defensive gestures and cries of submission, the young male drooped.  Its long neck swayed in the current, aimless.

The adult had torn chunks of meat from the male while he was still alive.  Already her strength and energy were returning.  Something like a stroke of genius came to her.  Usually, she would eat her fill, then let the remains drop to the ocean bed.  But a spark from the lean ages, when the riverine Tu-nel dragged their prey to the shore for future feedings, fired her own instincts.  Taking hold of the male's neck, she pulled the body onto the reef south of Eastern.

The battleship was the noisiest entity she'd ever encountered.  Far more rackety than the ill-fated
Lydia
Bailey
.  Vaguely, she sensed the danger it presented, made the association between the fire it spit and the death of Green Stripes.

She took advantage of the late afternoon light to bask.  Afterwards, she slid underwater and listened to the sea sounds.

Then she made a long, casual circumvention of the atoll.  She would take another look... at the noise.

1715 Hours

The ship stank of smoke and cordite.  A third of the dead-lights in the passageways were shattered, the broken bulbs lying in their wire cages like sharp feathers in a nest.  Amos had to feel his way much of the time.  Seamen cursed lowly when he touched them with his sticky hands.  Coming out amidships, both he and the petty officer leading him sneezed in the sudden light.  They climbed the short ladder at the back of the pilothouse and stood at attention before the bridge crew.

"Phew!" exclaimed the exec, turning his nose up at Amos.  "I think we have our answer already, Captain."

Oates nodded.  He could smell the steward clear across the bridge.  For his part, Amos was shocked by the captain's appearance.  He'd heard nothing about his seizure, and assumed his blanched countenance and the deep pain in his eyes were the result of the day's horrors.

"We saw that beast come up on you," said Grissom.  "We asked you up here to find out why it didn't gobble you up, like it did that poor fellow near you.  Dr. Singleton thought it might have something to do with your being a Negro."

"The beasties might not like the smell of dark meat," the doctor commented.

"No, sir.  It was the duff sauce that put it off," Amos answered, unperturbed.  He went on to describe his meeting with William Pegg and their foray into the galley.  His listeners were not incredulous.  They had, after all, seen that it worked.

"Scare up Mr. Pegg and take him to the galley," Oates said to the duty petty officer.  "And write down the recipe to pass around to the other messdecks.  We're going to need enough of this sauce to coat another landing force."

"Aye, sir."

Amos was dismissed.  Before leaving, he looked at Dr. Singleton.  "I'm sorry about Mr. Davis, sir."

"Midshipman Davis?" the doctor said with a start.

"It seemed you two was close.  I... thought you knew."

"No...."

A look of horror crossed Singleton's face.

1721 Hours

Captain Oates and his Executive Officer watched as Singleton left the pilothouse, shoulders slouched.  Both men uttered soft grunts.  They'd not thought the doctor would be so affected by the middy's death, which was why they had not bothered telling him about it when they saw the casualty report.

Leaving the bridge, they sequestered themselves in the small sea cabin behind the wheelhouse.  Grissom noted the old man's hands shaking as he eased himself onto the narrow cot he used whenever he wanted to spend the night near the bridge.  He was fond enough of Oates, had no desire for a field promotion at his expense.  But he was equally concerned that Oates should not die before they reached Hawaii.  A man of his word, he would unquestionably assume all responsibility for the deaths and damage on the
Florida
.  Unless that bit of charity came from Oates' own lips, however, Grissom might as well resign his commission.  Any claim that cast aspersion on a dead shipmaster would cause the naval authorities to look askance.  Grissom would be lucky to get a job on a tugboat.  In a very real way, his livelihood hinged on the captain's life.

"Our coal situation drastically limits our options, Grissom."

"We're going to have to drop anchor."

"And land more men.
 
More artillery.  We can't wait for the marines to come back to us.  We don't know what their condition is."  He pressed his back against the glossy wood paneling and sighed.  "The greatest event in history and I'm meat in the locker."

Grissom pursed his lips.  Nothing could top the Annunciation on his list of historic priorities.  Notwithstanding, this collision between ancient beast and modern man was certainly momentous--if also ruinous to all involved.

"I don't want to die out here.  Oh, don't look so sour.  I've come to a decision.  I won't die until the Inquiry's done and finished.  Wouldn't want you taking any of the blame for this."

Blushing fiercely, Grissom busied himself with the cane chair across from the bunk.  By the time he was properly seated, Oates had changed the subject.

"I want volunteers for the new landing party.  Ensign Garrett, for one.  And that murderous bastard who tried to set fire to my ship."

"Fireman Gilroy."

"And anyone else in the brig."

"Those are the only two, I believe.  We need everyone else at their stations.  Sir, about Garrett
-
-
"

"I heard how he saved the ship.  Admirable.  But he fired without orders.  God knows how many good men he killed on the island."

"He may have saved plenty of them, too."  The exec immediately regretted his words.  The captain's complexion heightened dangerously.

"What if we'd been dipping colors to the Japanese?  A twelve-incher goes off and it's war.  I can't have it.  Not on my ship!"

To Grissom, Oates sounded like a man trying to talk away an inoperable cancer.  More faith than practicality.  Yet he was right.  Discipline had to be maintained.  While he could not send the entire expensively-trained crew of Turret One to near-certain death, the ranking officer in the turret was another matter.

"Very well, sir.  Ensign Garrett.  As for Gilroy, he was let out with Garrett during the attack.  I'm afraid the Master
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at
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Arms hasn't been able to locate him."

The thought of a drug
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crazed arsonist running loose on the
Florida
lifted Oates from the wall.  Cramming his hands on his knees, he hissed, "Every available man
-
-
"

"Is searching for him.  But he may have been caught under the boat deck when the casemates caved in.  There are still bodies trapped down there."

Sobered by this information, Oates leaned back.  "All right.  But I want the search continued.  There's no telling what that lunatic's up to, if he's alive.  For all we know, he's an Anarchist.  Probably is."