CHAPTER 16
North of Tjilatjap (Chill-chaap)
G
ilbert Yeager leaned over the rail, staring down at the water and the bubbles gushing up from below. He was chewing some of the yellow tobacco leaves, and occasionally he’d spit in the tumbling, gurgling water. Laney was down there in a hardhat and diving suit, welding
Santa Catalina
’s open seams. The obnoxious bastard had guts; there was no doubting that. He was still an asshole, though, and it was fun to spit “on” him. Lieutenant “Mikey” Monk stood next to Gilbert, also looking down, as did a squad of musketarmed Marines. Apparently there were no flashies in the swamp, something they’d speculated on before, based on the less salty water and the “frog folks,” who couldn’t prosper here if flasher fish were around. Even if none of the voracious silvery fish were present, there were doubtless other things—and the frog folks themselves, of course. Ever since the “Battle for
Santa Catalina
,” however, the slippery, sticky-tongued devils had left the salvage party alone. Chapelle wasn’t sure how to take that. He was glad, no question, but he hadn’t expected them to give up so easily. That indicated a level of intelligence beyond the Uul class of Grik at any rate. They’d taken a lot of casualties, sure, but there were a lot of them. Every night they surrounded the ship, croaking, thrumming, and chirping at one another, and the lights reflected hundreds of glowing eyes. Even now, in the light of day, eyes could be seen, barely above the water, peering at them like little crocodiles—or big frogs. They kept their distance, and the Marines were ready to shoot any that ventured too close to Laney, but after the previous violent encounter, they now seemed completely content just to stare.
“You got some more of that tobacco?” Mikey asked.
“Sure,” Gilbert said, fishing a pouch out of his shirt pocket. He handed it over. “Didn’t know you chewed.”
“I didn’t,” Monk confessed. “Got to now, until we figure out some way to smoke this stuff.” The “local” tobacco, a product of the environs of Aryaal, tasted like real tobacco and probably was, of a sort. The problem was, the leaves were coated in some kind of vile, waxy, resiny stuff that made people who tried to smoke it violently ill. It tasted terrible too, until one chewed through the coating and spit it out.
“Me an’ Isak been workin’ on that,” Gilbert confessed quietly, looking around to make sure no one else heard. When they finally made their momentous breakthrough, they intended to keep the process secret and corner the market on “smokin’ tobacco.” It was common knowledge that the Mice had been experimenting, but there’d been no progress announced.
“Getting any closer?”
“Well, no,” Gilbert admitted. “But we rule stuff out with every failure.”
“Hmm. Say, where’s Isak anyway?”
Gilbert gestured down. “He’s in the aft hold, watchin’ Laney work from the other side. There was a couple of places where the plates were buckled out a little and him and a bunch o’ ’Cats are pryin’ ’em back in place. Last time Laney was up, he said one more plate should finish the patch.”
Monk nodded. “Yep. One more plate and we should be able to pump out the hold. I just hope that’ll float her. It’s mighty shallow water hereabouts.”
“Yeah,” Gilbert agreed. “The engine
should
work. All the steam lines is fixed and most were tight to start with. This old tub’s crew was nice to her . . . once. Course, we can’t test the engine ’til the screw’s clear of the bottom, but like I said, it should work.”
“Then it’ll just be a matter of steamin’ this old bucket outta this creepy place,” Monk said.
“Hopefully. Providin’ the water’s deep enough. Might have to lighten ship and take her out at high tide. Hell, them fellas got her in here somehow, didn’t they?”
Monk pulled a small wad of leaves from Gilbert’s pouch and stuck them in his cheek, grimaced, then handed the pouch back while he vigorously chewed to get past the initial foul taste. Gilbert grinned and aimed another splurt of tobacco juice at Laney’s bubbles.
“You don’t like Laney much, do you?” Monk asked, nodding at the water.
“No. Does anybody? ”
Lieutenant Monk snorted. “Well, come to that, I guess not. Must get lonesome.”
“Laney?” Gilbert asked incredulously. “He
wants
everybody to hate him. He likes it.”
Monk didn’t point out that Gilbert and Isak both acted like they didn’t give much of a damn about anybody either, except Tabby. They’d finally established communications with one of the portable transmitter /receivers, a generator, and the ship’s own wireless antennae array. The first news they’d heard was about the victory at Rangoon—and the storm trouble
Walker
had encountered. Included was a list of her dead and injured. Tabby’s bravery had been mentioned, but so had her condition. Monk knew Gilbert and Isak would never show it, but they were both worried about the absent member of their strange little tribe.
“Do you
hate
him?” Monk asked.
Gilbert looked surprised. “Only when he’s around. Otherwise, I don’t think about him one way or another. An’ it ain’t like I’d go over there an’ stand on his air hose or nothin’. Now, if somethin’ swum up an’ ate his sorry ass . . .” He paused, thoughtful. “Ya know, I guess it’ud be a shame, sorta,” he admitted. “Not ’cause I like him or anything, but there ain’t many of us ‘born’ destroyermen left, after all. Less than a hunnerd, from two ships now, not countin’ them pig-boat pukes. ’Cats are swell, but they’re, well . . . new. ’Sides, if Laney got ate, who’d put on that brass hat an’ jump in the water? You’d probably make me do it an’ I don’t even know how!” He spat again. “Naw, Laney’s a turd, but he ain’t a useless turd. That’s somethin’, I guess. Biggest problem I got with him now is that just ’cause he used to be in charge o’ me an’ Isak, he thinks he still is.”
“I’ll fix that,” Monk promised.
“Yeah? How? He thinks he’s still in charge o’ you too.”
Isak was back on deck with the others when they hoisted Laney out of the water, and he, Gilbert, Sammy, and Monk helped him over the rail of the low-sided basket he’d been standing in and onto the ship. Monk undogged the helmet and he and Isak twisted it off.
“Chop the compressor,” Monk called.
“Shit,” Laney proclaimed when the stuttering drone subsided. “Somebody gimme a drink and a chew!” They eased him down on a bench they’d positioned near the ship’s rail, and he sprawled on it while they helped him out of the suit.
“Did you finish?” Chapelle asked, offering a canteen.
“Best I could,” Laney gasped after a long swig. “Water’s murky as hell and the hull’s covered with weed. Had to do a lot of scrapin’. No barnacles, though. Maybe the water killed ’em? Between that, the bubbles, the fire, an’ all them creepy toad lizards gawkin’ at me all the time . . .” He seemed to shiver involuntarily.
“You actually
saw
them?”
“
Saw
’em! Hell, them slimy devils was on the
basket
with me before I was done! Didn’t you hear me bangin’ on the hull plates?”
“I did,” Isak confessed. “Wondered why you was doin’ that.”
Laney glared at Isak, then at the Marines gathered near. “Fine lot of good any o’ you did! They could’a been gnawin’ my bones right now, and you’d all still be standin’ here starin’ at the water wonderin’ how much longer I’d be!”
“We
were
startin’ to wonder . . .” Gilbert said.
Chapelle gave him a warning look.
“You have my most sincere apologies, Mr. Laaney,” Lieutenant Bekiaa-Sab-At said. “We watched them as closely as we could, but we only saw the eyes above water that they let us see. We had no idea any were that close to you. You continued to work, so we assumed you were safe.”
Laney snatched Gilbert’s tobacco pouch and furrowed his brow. “That’s the weird thing,” he said. “First one o’ them buggers came driftin’ into view, why, I was tempted to be a touch nervous. I hollered some, but I knew you’d never hear me over the compressor, so I waved the torch at ’em a little. They stopped, but didn’t go away.”
“There more than one?” Moe asked in his clipped English. He’d joined the group, as had half the crew who’d been working nearby.
Suddenly conscious that he was the center of attention, Laney nodded grandly. “D’rectly, there was swarms of ’em, just floatin’ around me!”
“Why didn’t you yank on your line?” asked Ben Mallory, who’d been drawn from his inspection of one of the damaged aircraft crates, aft.
“Yeah!” chorused others.
“We’d have pulled you up,” assured Monk, looking at Gilbert.
“Well . . . that’s the weird part. There they was, an’ there I was, just lookin’ at each other. Ugly bastards too, bobbin’ there in the gloom. God knows what they thought o’ me in the suit. Anyway, when they didn’t eat me right off, I . . . I just got this funny feelin’ they weren’t going to. Don’t know why.” The suit was off his shoulders now, exposing his wet, hairy chest. He shrugged. “Maybe it was sorta like when a dog comes runnin’ up to you. Sometimes you can just tell if he wants you to pet him or if he wants to eat yer hand.”
“No dog’d ever bite you, Laney,” Gilbert jabbed. “Might as well chew arsenic.”
Laney rolled his eyes. “Two words, two syllables, mouse brain: Piss. Off.” He looked at Chapelle. “So I went back to work. I guess, compared to them flashies that nearly got me that time, I got this
feelin
’ these critters could
Think
, you know? After that, it came to me that they could’a ate me before I ever even saw ’em, so they must’a
decided
not to.” He shook his head. “Then came the weird part.”
“You just said the other part was the weird part,” Isak said accusingly.
Laney scowled. “It was, goddamn it! I’m tellin’ this, so shove off! It was
all
weird, but it got even weirder, see? There I was, surrounded by giant ‘toady-gators.’ . . . Hey, that sounds pretty good! Toady-gators! Anyway, still surrounded by toady-gators, I finished up that second plate and signaled for you to move me an’ lower down the last one. . . .” He stopped and glared at Isak again. “It just hit me. You
did
hear
That
signal!”
“That time it made sense,” Isak replied defensively. “You used the signal you said you’d use. The first time I figgered you was bangin’ on barnacles ’er somethin’.”
“I just said there weren’t any barnacles!”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Chief Laney—” Chapelle prodded.
“Yeah, well, I was havin’ some trouble with that last plate. The curve was pretty good,” he said, complimenting the ’Cats who’d formed it, “but it wanted to hang sorta bad. I couldn’t tack the top and hold it against the bottom, if you know what I mean. Needed two fellas down there.”
“Only the one suit,” Chapelle reminded him.
“I know. But it was okay! Them toads must’a figgered out what I was tryin’ ta do, and seen I couldn’t do it by myself!” He stopped and shook his head again. “Couple of ’em helped me! Damned if they didn’t!”
“You’re telling me these creatures—the same ones we fought a
pitched battle
against just a couple of nights ago—actually helped you patch this ship? Patch the very hole they probably used to get in and out?” Chapelle demanded.
Laney was nodding. “The last part of it, anyway. Not even the little ones could’a squirmed through there by then, but yeah, they did. Pushed in on the bottom while I tacked the top, then kept holdin’ it while I ran a short bead on the bottom.” He looked around defensively. “I just got this
feelin
’, ya know? That they knew what I was up to and had decided to help.”
For a moment, except for the gentle whoosh of the boiler and the cries from the nearby jungle, there was utter silence on
Santa Catalina
.
“Well,” Chapelle said at last, quietly, glancing over the side at the eyes in the water, “do you have confidence in your repairs, Chief Laney?”
“As much confidence as a fella can ever have in a weld, and an underwater weld at that,” he said, hedging. “Goddamn welded ships crack up and sink all the time, you know.”
“It’ll have to do until we can get her in the dry dock back home,” Russ said. “We’ll drill holes at the seams and use bolts too—if you don’t mind going back in the water.”
Laney deflated just a little, but nodded. “They didn’t eat me last time. I guess they don’t mean to. Them just bein’ around probably keeps other things away. I’ll go.”
“You be sure an’ tell ’em hi’dy for me, will ya?” Isak said with a snicker.
“I will,” Laney grumbled. “Matter of fact, no reason you can’t go next time. It’ll just be slidin’ bolts through some holes and backin’ ’em up. The suit’s no big deal. You can say ‘hi’dy’ right to ’em. Who knows, maybe you’ll get a date.”
Isak eased a step closer to Gilbert. That was what always happened whenever he tried to be friendly, talk to folks outside his “clan.” Inevitably, things escalated to a point where they started expecting him to
do
things. “You go, Dean,” he said, his voice subconsciously regressing to its flat, reedy, monosyllabic norm. “They’re your friends. You need friends.”
By that evening, with the assistance of the “portable” steam-powered generators from Chief Electrician’s Mate Rodriguez’s growing concern in Baalkpan, and the combination of his crude electric motors and the sophisticated Lemurian pumps, tons of brackish, ill-smelling water had already gushed out of the aft hold. Laney’s patch leaked, but seemed to be holding well enough. Myriad bizarre creatures slithered or skittered in the emerging silt accumulated in the ship. The workers down there, occasionally tightening Laney’s bolts or shoveling mucky silt toward a hose that reliquefied it so it could be sucked from the bilge, were constantly on alert for squirmy things. At one point, Isak emitted a most unmanly shriek, but then went after something that looked like a horseshoe crab with long, wickedly curved and articulated downwardstabbing forelegs, or “jabbers,” as he later called them. It had come marching directly at him out of the gloom, and probably spurred by his own initial terror, he relentlessly pursued the thing with a wrecking bar long after it reconsidered its attack. He never found it.