Deadly Shores (6 page)

“What about you, Ben?”

Mallory eased Matt away from the table. “You're jumping right down the shark's throat on this one, sir. You're going to
need
me—and at least a few of my modern birds.”

Matt nodded. “And I wish we could take them, though I think
you'd
still need to stay here. But the question is, what would we do with them?”

“Well, you can fly 'em off
Big Sal
if you have to!”

“
Once
, Ben,” Matt stated flatly. “Just one time. And what then? Where will they land? They can't set back down on
Big Sal
!”

“Well . . . there's got to be someplace on the whole damn island of Madagascar—” He looked around and lowered his voice, as if one or two people in the compartment might not know where they were going. “There's got to be someplace we can set down!”

“But what if it's someplace we can't get to, where we can't fuel them, where we have to
leave
them!”

“We wouldn't leave them in one piece, Captain!”

“I don't want to leave them at all, damn it!”

“Then take that silly damn thing we put those Jap floats on!” Ben insisted. “It looks weird as hell, but it'll still be faster than anything else you have, and can carry more ordnance!” One of the P-40s had been damaged, and after the landing gear was removed, a pair of floats salvaged from
Amagi
's hangars had been attached.

Matt grinned. “We already did. It went to Diego aboard
Respite Island
, with the PTs.”

“Then I should go!” Ben repeated. “Who can fly a P-Forty or a floatplane better than me?”

Matt put his hand on his shoulder. “Not you, Ben. Things can still spin out of control here, and nothing we've got can hammer the Grik better than your Warhawks. Besides, if we wind up in a situation that needs air power to get us out, I don't care where it is, I'll rely on you to come through.” He said the last almost jokingly, but he was serious, and Ben knew it.

The meeting broke up, with officers hurrying toward their commands. Matt and Sandra were stepping back down the gangplank when they caught up with Pam again. She was looking around, scanning the pier and the ruins beyond.

“So,” Matt asked casually, “where did Silva go, anyway?”

“I'm not so sure now. He
said
he was goin' fishin'.” She took a deep breath and shrugged.

T
he little sloop-rigged gri-kakka boat pounded briskly through the choppy sea on a stiff breeze from the starboard quarter. The sun had risen above the empty horizon to the east and glared sharp and bright at the coast of India a dozen miles off the port beam. High, wispy clouds scudded swiftly across a mostly clear sky, and it was probably barely eighty degrees. Without question, it was absolutely the finest day to play hooky that they could've ever hoped for.

The boat was only eight tails long—about twenty-five feet—and the occupants—four men, two 'Cats, and a single Grik-like Sa'aaran—were having a thrilling sail. Perhaps more thrilling than one or two might prefer. The giant Chief Gunner's Mate Dennis Silva, dressed only in cutoffs, a black eye patch, and his ever-present web belt festooned with Colt pistol, 1917 cutlass, and 1903 Springfield bayonet, stood in the bow, whooping with glee. His shouts were sometimes muffled by the packets of spray sluicing back to drench everyone in the boat. The much smaller Sa'aaran, Lawrence, or “Larry the Lizard,” crouched beside him, orange-and-brown tiger-striped feathery fur soaked and plastered to his body. He didn't look as happy as Silva, but there was a predatory gleam in his eyes. He also looked much more reptilian than usual with his fur and moderate tail plumage flattened. A little farther back, Courtney Bradford, a wide sombrero tied on his balding head, stared forward with excited fascination. Earl Lanier,
Walker
's bloated, irascible cook, was in the center of the boat where he'd been ordered to remain “as ballast.” He was furious, but also grimly determined not to spew. He was an obsessive fisherman, and the outing had been his idea, after all. Gunnery Sergeant Arnold Horn, late of the 4th Marines, had no interest in the proceedings whatsoever, and didn't care what anybody thought. He was leaning over the lee rail, practically in the water at times, washing his breakfast out of the black beard covering his face. The little boat's crew, 'Cat lance hurlers from one of the bigger fishing feluccas contracted to carry freight to Madras from Baalkpan, only seemed amused.

“There must be a dozen of the buggers!” Courtney gushed. “And we do seem to be gaining at last!”

Silva looked back. “What?” he roared.

“We're getting closer!”

“Damn straight! We'll be close enough to give 'em a poke di-rectly! No, Earl, goddamn it! Stay put for now. You heave your fat ass up forward an' push her head down, you'll slow us up. Boogers'll get plumb away!”

“The hell you say!” Earl ranted with an emphatic, universal gesture. “I hired this boat, an' it's my fishin' trip! I just allowed you guys to tag along.”

“Hired with what? The fish we get! An' you sure as hell ain't gettin' one on your own!”

All this was true. An absolute fiend for fishing, Earl had arranged the enterprise to “catch” a gri-kakka—or the local equivalent no 'Cat had ever taken. But gri-kakka were monstrous things, a type of plesiosaur, and this particular species was about the size of a right whale. Their value to Lemurians was similar to whales as well, as they rendered their fat for oil, but also harvested their flesh. The economies of the great seagoing Homes were largely dependent on them. Fishing feluccas made their living filling their holds with flasher fish, or any of a number of smaller, edible sea creatures. But flashies wouldn't keep, and felucca skippers were always happy to get a few dozen barrels of gri-kakka oil if the opportunity arose—especially when returning empty to Baalkpan.

Earl smoldered.

“Those are
'ig
hish!” Lawrence said quietly to Silva. He understood English as well as anyone, and spoke it perfectly as well—except for words that required lips. He actively tried to avoid those.

“The bigger they are, the more satisfyin' the dance!” Silva proclaimed, but he saw Lawrence's curious gaze. “The fancier they flop!” he explained happily. “You know, like a super lizard! Damn things fall like a redwood tree!”

“You
are
crazy,” Lawrence observed, then flicked his tail. “So long as they don't 'lop on us.”

Silva cocked his head philosophically. “We'll just hafta be careful.”

Lawrence snorted. “Care'ul, you?”

“You ain't goin' chikkin on me, are you, Larry?”

“Not chikkin. 'Ut e'en that hish doesn't 'lop on us, Ca'tain Reddy is going to, us get 'ack. He
ordered
you not to do this, long ago.” He nodded back toward Courtney. “And you take Courtney too! Ca'tain'll go nuts!”

Silva frowned. Lawrence was right. This was one of the few times—in his opinion—he might've let one of his little stunts go just a tad over the top. But what it all boiled down to was that he'd been bored. Well, not
bored
exactly; he had plenty to do, but he'd been a “good boy” for an unnaturally long time, doing his duty and generally behaving himself in an entirely unprecedented manner. He no longer felt the need to disobey orders on general principle; he was loyal to the Skipper and his ship, and even the cause they fought for. He
admired
Captain Reddy. But after all, he was Dennis Silva, and a certain degree of “over-the-top” was expected of him on a fairly regular basis. If he didn't pull something now and then, he figured he was letting his shipmates down, and he rationalized that his occasional harmless stunts were important for morale. They were certainly important for
his
morale, and that counted for something, didn't it? An unhappy Silva made for an unhappy—and nervous—crew.

Then there was the whole “Pam angle” to consider. He guessed he was maybe a little in love with the spunky little broad, but part of “the deal” he made with her was that she had to quit trying to turn him into . . . anything other than what he was. He needed stunts like this now and then to emphasize to everybody, and maybe Pam most of all, that no matter what, he was still Dennis Silva.

“Yeah,” he finally answered, “but that ain't my fault. Just like he's done before, Courtney found out what was up and said he'd blow if we didn't take him to watch.” He glared back at Bradford. “No principles—no honor amongst scamps, so ta speak. He
blackmailed
me. Again! Ever-thing was set, an' he just showed up and jumped in the boat. Hell, you
saw
! What was I s'posed to do?”

“You should ha' thrown he out on the dock. Ca'tain's going to hear o' this any'ay. He'll just get angrier now.”

“Why the hell didn't you say so at the time, damn it? I swear. What good does it do for one of us to think ahead if he don't warn the other?”

Lawrence nodded at Gunny Horn. “He thought ahead, said us shouldn't go at all.”

Silva looked at his—currently wretched—Marine friend. Horn was almost as big as Silva, if not as tall. “Yeah, but he let a whole ship fall on him not too long ago.”

“So did us!”

“That was different. We were inside. He was outside, an' shoulda' seen it comin'. Besides, his thinkin' ahead hasn't always worked out so well in other ways,” he added cryptically, again referencing some event from the pair's past that remained mysterious. He faced forward. “An' we're here now,” he said, voice rising as he became exuberant once more. “Just
look
at those damn fish!”

The closest creature was barely three boat lengths ahead now, slowly rising and falling in the swells, making a respectable four or five knots. Silva could finally get a good look at it. At a glance, he'd have thought it was a whale . . . of some sort . . . in the old days. The smooth skin on its back was a dark bluish black, and what he saw of it moved like a whale as well. On closer inspection, however, it was clear it had no long tail with flukes, but rather four massive fins that propelled it with a striking grace for something so large. There was another fin, kind of long and low, down the center of its back that didn't look very whalelike either, but the weirdest thing was how far forward the periodic, rainbow-washed spume rose in the air when it blew. Obviously, these “pleezy-sores,” as Silva called them, were the type with long necks usually ending in relatively small heads, given their overall size, that were often armed with a frightening array of teeth. If that was the case, they probably weren't as aggressive as the sort without long necks. Those had been known to seek out and destroy boats the size they were in. Despite that, and despite the apparently oblivious placidity with which the pod moved, they'd learned that virtually all sea creatures on this world were shockingly dangerous.

“Oh, look!” Courtney gushed, shouldering his way forward. “Look at it move! Amazing! And there! That fin seems to extend a remarkable distance forward, perhaps all the way to the head! I predict they use it much like a rudder, or shifting keel!”

“You reckon they just naturally go whichever way they're lookin'?”

“Indeed!”

Silva grunted. That might be so, but that long neck probably left them vulnerable to the kind without one, he thought. It might also be why they didn't tend to attack large prey as aggressively.

“You better pick a good-un!” Earl shouted from amidships. “I didn't charter this jaunt to catch a minnow!”

“Draw yer fires, Earl. They're all whoppers. This first one's as big as any, I guess. You might as well come on up here an' take yer shot. Mr. Bradford, you better ease on back an' take his place. If anybody gets yanked er knocked over the side, I'd rather it was him.”

Courtney reluctantly obeyed, and Earl went forward, clutching a long, wickedly barbed harpoon.

“You stick'eem in front o' body,” the 'Cat at the tiller reminded loudly. “Up close to neck. Lots o' blood hoses there. You stick'eem in body, you pop air sack, he sink like rock. We lose! We run up on his back, you stick'eem right then!”

“In other words, don't miss!” Silva warned.

“I won't miss, you rotten skunk's ass!” Lanier sneered.

“Make ready,” the 'Cat cried again. The other 'Cat bounded forward, tail high, and hooked a line on Earl's harpoon. He quickly paid out a couple dozen fathoms of the bright-colored rope, holding it looped in his hand, then took a quick turn around a heavy rounded post at the bow. With Earl's bulk forward, the boat actually was slowing, but it was time to do so at any rate. The great fish was right there, rising almost beneath them, and with a heeling jolt, the boat grounded on its back.

“Now!” cried the 'Cats.

“
Now
, you gallopin' glob o' lard,” Silva urged happily.

Earl Lanier must've been practicing for this. With surprising ease, he raised the harpoon, angled the four-bladed tip downward, and launched it on a two-handed, straight-line drive deep into the flesh forward of what had to be some kind of massive shoulder blade. Earl might be obese, but no one ever thought he was weak. He had to be fairly strong just to heave himself around, didn't he?

“Hold on!” trilled the 'Cat in the bow, just as the monster exploded in a frenzy of motion. Something slammed the bottom of the boat, and white water erupted around them like a depth charge. “He gonna run now,” added the 'Cat, matter-of-factly.

There was considerable elasticity in the line attached to the harpoon, and the turn around the post acted as a kind of clutch, but when the line went taut, everyone tumbled into the bottom of the boat as it practically jerked out from under them.

“Whoo-eee!” Silva roared, scrambling back to his perch amid the froth and spray.

“Down sails!” shrieked the 'Cat at the tiller in Lemurian, and the other 'Cat shouted at Silva to keep tension on the line around the post. “Let it slip some,” he warned, “till that fish run outa gas. Udderwise, he yank the boat in two! Throw water on it, it start to smoke!” Not much need for that, with all the water splashing in. Silva took the line and the 'Cat scampered aft and released the halyard. The mainsail rattled down the mast. He quickly bundled it and lashed it to the boom, then lowered what the humans would've called a jib. Lawrence tried to bundle it as it flapped in the breeze, and soon the boat was bare-poled, slashing through the sea at ten or twelve knots. Most of the other gri-kakka veered away as their quarry plunged forward, but the boat suddenly slammed across the back of a beast that hadn't yet. A great head on the end of a slender, finned neck reared from the sea, striking down with a gaping mouth full of six-inch, needle-sharp teeth, ideal for catching fish. They appeared just as efficient at snatching people, and nearly got Gunny Horn.

“Goddamn!” he yelped, throwing himself away from the beam where he'd crawled to resume his misery when the boat took off. His discomfort finally in perspective, he struggled forward to join Silva.

“Damn thing nearly got me!” he accused.

Silva, still straining at the line, took in his bright-eyed anger and grinned. “Cured your sea-sick, though, didn't he? Damn, Arnie, it's about time you got in the game an' quit loungin' on the deck chairs!” He looked at Horn. “I always thought the whole reason for Marines was havin' soldiers on a boat!”

“On
ships
, you maniac. Not wood chips like this!”

“Marine pukery,” Silva accused severely. “Dis-gustin'. Ain't that right up there with dereflection o' duty an' wastin' beer? Help Larry with that jib before it beats him ta death, wilya?”

Still a little green, Horn moved to comply while the 'Cat made his way forward with a bundle of long, sharp lances. He laid them down, points projecting over the bulwark.

“I thought we was just goin' fishin,” Horn grumbled, looking at the plunging monster ahead, “not hunting sea monsters!”

“Every fish in this sea is a sea monster o' some sort, you stupid gyrene. Ain't you figgered that out yet?” Earl barked scathingly. “Hell, what do you think I feed you devils half the time? Friggin' guppies? Most o' what you guys eat as
meat
started out as somethin' like that!” He pointed at the plesiosaur.