Silva was on the aft deckhouse, watching, while the crew of number four made ready. His new exalted status was liberating in a way; he wasn’t a gun captain anymore, so he could pretty much pick where he wanted to be during general quarters, but it also left him feeling like he had nothing to do at times. Lieutenant Dowden, a few feet distant, probably felt the same way, manning the auxiliary conn. It was his duty to conn the ship if the bridge or its personnel were disabled. In the meantime, he didn’t have anything to do either, except watch the god-awful, humongous fish come swimming up their skirt. All they could really see was an enormous, rounded hump, pushing displaced water like a rogue tsunami. Occasionally it blew a mist of atomized water high in the air from an indistinct hole that closed immediately after. Its massive flukes, or tail, or whatever drove it, never broke the surface, and it did look for all the world like a big, rounded, barnacle-encrusted . . . island, chasing them to beat sixty. The stern crouched down suddenly, and Silva felt the ship accelerate, but the damn thing was fast! Realistically he couldn’t imagine the fish maintaining its nearly twenty-knot surge for any length of time, but realistically it shouldn’t exist at all. He wasn’t sure they’d get clear in time.
“Commence firing!” shouted the talker beside the gun, and an instant later the pointer stomped the trigger pedal. There was an earsplitting
boom!
and the gun jumped back, vomiting its empty shell to clang on the deck. Another shell went in and the breech slammed shut, while a ’Cat ordnance striker chased the empty shell with outstretched gloves, trying to catch it before it went over the side, and keep an eye on the approaching horror at the same time.
Boom!
The breech clanked open, spilling another empty, and the shell man slammed another home.
Boom!
Three high-explosive four-inch shells disappeared into what had to be the thing’s head and detonated with enough force to scatter gobbets of flesh hundreds of yards. A massive, gaping wound as big as a car had appeared where the shells struck home, and the wave it pushed had taken a pinkish tinge from blood coursing down. Suddenly, much closer than they expected—less than a hundred yards astern—another hump rose up, clearing the water and exposing monstrous ivory teeth. The thing emitted a roar like a hundred whales being electrocuted, and surged in for the kill. They hadn’t been shooting at its head at all!
“Out of the way, goddamn it!” Silva shouted, yanking the ’Cat pointer out of his chair and sending him sprawling on the deck. He jumped on the metal seat and looked through the eyepiece in front of him. He barely heard the shouted, “Roll two!” command and the muted splash of the depth charges. “Clear!” he roared, making sure no one was behind him, and he pressed the firing pedal with the crosshairs centered far back in the roof of the creature’s mouth.
Boom!
The overpressure of the gun’s report was like a lover’s embrace. “Load!”
The water beneath the monster’s upper jaw spalled suddenly, and two enormous spumes of water obscured their vision. There was a sense of massive motion, and then what seemed like tons of seawater deluged the men and ’Cats on the stern of the ship. Silva wiped his eyes and searched frantically for the target. For an instant he felt disoriented, and started to yell at the trainer, thinking he’d spun the gun out to one side. But wait, there were the depth charge racks right below him. He stared again, squinting, and realized it was true: the monster was gone. All that remained as
Walker
continued to accelerate away was a giant field of churning bubbles, harsh against the cerulean sea, and in its midst, like an oil slick, an expanding stain of black-red blood.
“Goddamn!” Silva whooped, joining the cheers around him. “I sunk him!”
Lighting a third boiler, and keeping a steady twenty-five knots,
Walker
managed to outrun anything her sonar didn’t scare away for the remainder of the transit. By midafternoon, Talaud Island was drawing near, as well as a group of smaller islands off the port bow, and Matt finally gave the order to reduce speed as the water shoaled rapidly closer to land.
“Which way, Skipper?” Dowden asked. They’d raised the island on its northeastern coast, and there was nowhere immediately apparent even a small boat—much less a submarine—might find shelter. Now they must decide whether to steam west, then south, to inspect the rest of the northern part of the island, then its western flank, or explore the eastern flank first. Matt glanced at Bradford, leaning on the rail, “his” binoculars glued to his eyes, oblivious to the question. He’d been morose when they’d been forced to injure and possibly kill one of the enormous mountain fish, and scandalized that he hadn’t been able to at least view its corpse—if there’d been one. Now his earlier petulance was gone, as he prepared for yet more fantastic discoveries. This would be the first time they’d visited a landmass far enough from any other and surrounded by deep and hostile enough waters that there’d have been little, if any, dissemination of land-dwelling species. He was excited by what he’d seen so far, even from a distance, and occasional happy chortles escaped him.
There were plenty of “birds.” Already they’d begun littering the deck again—and actual birds seemed to predominate. Bradford believed that, even if they weren’t as fiercely armed as their leathery competitors, they were lighter and probably had a longer range. Therefore, more species of feathered birds might make it to this isolated place to diversify and thrive. Perhaps the ones they saw before were even migrants from here? There were still plenty of lizard birds, but not in comparison, and most were larger than their northern cousins. In any event, Bradford was in no position to offer constructive opinions regarding which direction to go. He didn’t care.
Matt conferred quietly with Keje, and finally nodded in agreement. “We’ll explore the western flank first, Mr. Dowden. If we don’t find them there, or in the south or east, we’ll be in position to check out the smaller islands over there”—he gestured—“before heading home.”
“But . . . Captain, there’re still lots of other places they could be.”
“Possibly, but we don’t have time to look. It’s time we headed back, regardless.” He paused a moment, considering. “Have Mr. McFarlane secure a boiler of his choice. We’ll reduce speed to one-third, but let’s keep a close sonar watch, shall we? Helmsman, make your course two six zero, if you please.”
“Aye, sir, making my course two six zero.”
For the remainder of the day they cruised sedately on a calm, gently rolling sea. They saw nothing in the north and when they turned south it looked like more of the same at first: dense, impenetrable jungle growing right down to and beyond the shore, by means of a mangrove-type root system. It was unlike anything Matt had ever seen on such a large and isolated island, and always, in the distance, a large volcano loomed menacingly from the jungle mists enshrouding its flanks. Jets of smoke or steam curled from vents in its side. Eventually they began to notice irregularities in the shoreline, and they slowed to a crawl so they could glass them more carefully. Still, no true inlet was apparent, or even a beach. There was no sign of life at all, in fact, besides the ever-present, swooping, defecating birds. Even Courtney began losing interest by the time the sun edged toward the horizon.
“I say, Captain Reddy, shouldn’t we speed up? Hurry along, as it were? Surely the eastern side of the island is more hospitable and, well, easier to land upon.”
“We can’t know that, and we’re only looking once. If we ‘speed up’ we might miss something. It’ll soon be dark anyway, and we’ll have to anchor. I want to do it in the shallowest water possible, and right now there’s less water under our keel than we’ve had all day.” Making up his mind, he spoke to the talker. “Pass the word for Chack; have him call the special sea and anchor detail. This is as good a place as any.”
Lightning lit the night, slashing the sea in all directions, but there was little thunder, and the wind and sea remained calm and placid. It was an almost surrealistic spectacle, and nobody got much sleep. Earl Lanier went fishing—as was his custom whenever the ship was at rest. For once he didn’t whistle tunelessly or snap at others standing by the rail, watching the silent display. He didn’t catch anything either. Every time he lowered a hook, something immediately snapped his line. What’s more, things in the water evidently began associating the bait with the ship, and an unnerving bumping and . . . sliding . . . commenced against the hull. Campeti had the watch and ordered Lanier to hang it up before whatever was down there got any friskier. For once, Earl didn’t argue.
Before dawn, the anchor detail sprayed the heavy links with water as the chain came aboard, booming and rattling into the locker below. The crew stood to their battle stations as they did every morning when the ship was most vulnerable to observation, silhouetted against the graying sky. The practice had even taken on a more conventional feel. They knew they were looking for a submarine, and conventional wisdom said it was American. But they didn’t
know
it was American. Besides, even if it was, and even if it was out there, it might not know
they
were Americans, and after a year on this God’s nightmare of a world, it might have an itchy trigger finger.
In the pilothouse, holding his steaming “Captain’s” mug, Matt didn’t try to lighten the fresh tension around him. He knew there was almost no chance the iron fish would even be at sea, much less stalking them, but after the tiring night they’d passed, heightened awareness was a good thing. He gulped Juan’s coffee and didn’t even grimace. Bradford clomped up the ladder behind him, yawning loudly, followed by Adar and Keje. One way or another today would solve the mystery, at least so far as it was in their power to solve it, and they’d either find the elusive submarine on Talaud’s eastern flank or the little islands to the northeast, or they’d turn for home. Either way, everyone was anxious to get about it. The sense of “something’s not right” at Baalkpan had become a palpable thing, and every day they remained away added an exponential layer of anxiety. Even Bradford seemed resigned when Matt told him that unless they saw some evidence of the submarine, there’d be no excursion ashore.
“Anchor’s aweigh, Captain,” Dowden reported quietly in response to the shrill call of the bosun’s pipe on the foc’s’le. Matt nodded. He’d been wondering how ’Cats could toot on a bosun’s pipe when they couldn’t make a sound with a bugle. They’d learned at the Battle of Aryaal that they needed something like bugle calls to pass commands on the battlefield. Maybe they could adapt something like a giant bosun’s call. Use whistles or something? He shook his head. He’d have to ask someone. All he could make a bugle do was fart.
“Very well. All ahead slow; make your course zero seven five. Extra lookouts to port.”
When they rounded the island’s southern tip and headed north, they began to discover beaches. Visibility was excellent, and the rising sun penetrated the shadows of the suddenly less dense forest, and they caught glimpses of a few animals here and there. Most, beach scavengers probably, scampered quickly under cover at the sight of them, but one creature the size and shape of a rhino-pig, but with a powerful neck as long as its body and a head like a moose—with tusks—stared insolently at them as they passed. It occasionally even rushed the surf, as if warning them away.
“Oh! You’re a nasty fellow, aren’t you!” Courtney giggled happily. “Oof! Oof! Orrrrr!” There were chuckles in the pilothouse, and Matt stifled a grin.
By late morning the distant humps of the small islands to the northeast appeared through the haze, and everyone knew they were about out of luck. There’d been a couple of promising lagoons, but they turned out to be little more than crescents eroded into the island by the marching sea, and they could see clearly to their termination. Another such lagoon, or the point at the mouth of one, was coming up, and all were grimly certain it was their final chance. They’d almost reached the point where they’d initially turned west.
“Captain,” called Reynolds, “lookout reports this one’s deeper than the others. Maybe better protected.”
“Very well. We’ll stick our nose in and take a look. Pass the word for the lead line. Dead slow when we round the point, consistent with the current, of course.”
They passed the point and
Walker
slowed, Norman Kutas inching the big wheel ever so slightly to bring the bow around. The long swells pushed them toward the cove, and a series of constant adjustments were required.
“It
is
a deep inlet,” Reynolds confirmed, passing the lookout’s observations. “Surf’s a little gentler inside.”
“What’s our depth?” Matt asked.
“Seven fathoms, coming up fast.”
Reynolds looked up, eyes wide, and holding his earphone tight against his head as if not sure he’d heard correctly. “Uh, Captain, lookout says—I mean reports . . . there’s something on the beach, high on the beach, twenty degrees off the starboard bow. It looks sort of like the pictures you showed them.”
There was a rush to the bridge wing.
“Five fathoms!”
“Left full rudder,” Matt commanded, “port engine ahead two-thirds, starboard back two-thirds!”
Walker
eased to a stop and the stern began swinging right. The ship pitched uncomfortably on the rollers for a moment, then began to roll. “Drop anchor. Mr. Dowden? How’s the tide?”
“Low ebb, sir, about to turn.”
“Very well. Leadsman to the stern. Prepare the launch.” Only then did Matt go to the bridge wing, shouldering his way through the onlookers, and raise his own binoculars.
“I’ll be damned,” he said with a sinking heart. “Jesus, there she is . . .” He lowered the binoculars, but continued to stare. One of his questions had been answered. The stern continued coming around until
Walker
rode at anchor, pitching against the incoming sea.
“Stern lead reports three fathoms.”
Matt raised his glasses again and studied the object of their search, the object of so many secret hopes. “Well,” he said, his voice neutral, “stand by to lower the launch. Have Silva prepare a full weapons load for a shore party of twelve. Food, water, and medical supplies as well, in case there’re survivors.” He sighed. “As for the sub, we won’t be getting her off
that
. Not this trip, anyway.”