They took “Scott’s” barge, named after the dead coxswain. It was the biggest, and still the best maintained. Besides Matt (Lieutenant Dowden hadn’t even tried to talk him out of going this time), the barge carried Bradford, Adar, Keje, Spanky, and Gilbert Yager. Also aboard were Chack, Silva, Stites, and three Marines. Stites did a creditable job as coxswain as he conned the burbling boat through the rollers into the calmer water protected by the northern point of the lagoon. They were so fixated on the beached submarine, they hardly noticed the flashies bumping the hull with their bony heads, and the closer they came to shore, the more disheartened they became.
The submarine wasn’t only beached; she was high and dry. Even the incoming tide wouldn’t float her. It would barely reach her. It would’ve taken a severe storm indeed to leave her that high on the beach, and there was absolutely nothing they could do with the time and manpower available to get her off—not that there seemed much point. She lay at thirty degrees, keel toward the sea, and rust streaks ran from her cracked, peeling, faded gray paint. It was an old S-Boat, as Matt suspected all along. There’d been quite a few of the obsolete submarines attached to the Asiatic Fleet, and this one was clearly a
Holland
class, based on its unique stern configuration and distinctive sow-belly shape. Matt quickly reviewed what he knew about
Holland
boats in his mind: a little over 200 feet long with 20-foot beam, somewhere around a thousand tons, with two diesels and electric motors. Top speed of fourteen or fifteen knots on the surface. Four torpedo tubes, a four-inch-fifty deck gun—just like
Walker
’s main battery.
“S-19,” Spanky announced when the weather-ravaged numbers on her hull finally came in view. They couldn’t see the larger numbers on her conning tower at the angle she lay. “I know that boat,” he continued. “She was trying to clear Surabaya the same time we were. Having trouble with one of her diesels or something, and awaiting special orders. Battery trouble too, if I remember right. I talked to her chief, and he was run pretty ragged.”
“We all were,” Matt reminded him.
“True, but that boat’s even older than
Walker
and
Mahan
. And to think fellas would go
underwater
in it. Gives me the heebie-jeebies.” Another detail about S-Boats came to Matt’s mind as the barge scrunched onto the sandy beach and the shore party scrambled ashore: they had a crew of about forty officers and men. So far they’d seen no sign of them.
Stites and one of the Marines secured a line from the barge to the submarine’s port propeller shaft, and joined the others fanning out to inspect the environs. The Marines and Bradford had their Krags, and Silva and Stites both carried BARs. Matt and Keje were the only ones with Springfields, and Adar wasn’t armed at all—beyond a short sword at his side. Keje had become quite a marksman, but Adar wasn’t any kind of fighter. Heavens knew he wished he was, but he thought he’d be more dangerous to his friends than to an enemy with the powerful American weapons. He didn’t mind the little sword, because he could use it to hack brush—and he probably couldn’t hurt anyone with it but himself.
“There are many tracks in the sand,” Chack observed, and Bradford and Silva stooped to examine the impressions.
“Indeed there are!” Bradford exclaimed. “Some quite unique! I’ve never seen them before.” He pointed. “Here’s one that might have been made by one of those unpleasant buggers we saw earlier today!”
“I’m more interested in human tracks,” Matt replied, also stooping, “like these.” There was a large, well-beaten path leading from the submarine into the jungle. The tracks ran both ways, and some were relatively fresh. One very distinct set of tracks left him puzzled, however; the impressions were human, but only about half the size of the others.
“Jumpin’ Jesus!” Silva exclaimed. “There’s Grik tracks if I ever saw ’em! Lookie here, Skipper!” Matt hurried to where Silva stood, swatting sand off his knees.
“You’re right,” he confirmed darkly. “Everyone, there’s definitely Grik on this island, so keep your eyes peeled.” He stared at the trail leading from the submarine for a moment, then looked at the source. “I’d rather we all stuck together, but I’d also rather we didn’t waste any time. Spanky, Yager, and I will inspect the submarine, see if there’s anything we can salvage immediately. Maybe we can at least dig up some more four-inch-fifty ammunition. Stites’ll remain topside on the sub as security while we go inside. Chack, you and Silva lead everyone else up the trail and search for survivors. Keep an eye on Mr. Bradford.” He looked at Adar and Keje. “Would the two of you prefer to stay or go?”
Both Lemurians looked dubiously at the sharply leaning submarine.
“Fascinating as it might be to crawl inside that . . . contraption,” Keje hedged, “for myself, I would prefer to stay in the open.”
“I as well,” Adar agreed fervently.
“Suit yourselves. Can’t say I blame you. I’m not wearing dolphins for a reason.”
A cargo net hung from the shoreward side of the submarine, and they scrambled up without much difficulty. The deck was a little rough to stand on, since there were few stanchions, and S-Boat decks were notoriously slender to begin with. Only the area around the gun was very wide, where it swelled abruptly to give the gun crew footing when it was traversed. Matt eyed the gun greedily. If they couldn’t salvage the sub, he at least wanted that gun someday, and it looked more and more like he’d have it. Onboard, the sub looked even worse. The wooden strakes were rotting and a few had collapsed. They had to be careful not to fall through to the pressure hull below. One of the periscopes was badly bent, and the hull plating was washboarded like one would expect after a severe depth-charging. They climbed up to the conning tower hatch, and Spanky un-dogged it easily enough. He stuck his hand out to Gilbert, who fished in a pack and produced a pair of battle lanterns. Spanky briefly shone one down the hatch, and then slid down the ladder. Matt followed him, and Gilbert brought up the rear.
“Stinks in here,” Gilbert said, joining the others in the cramped compartment. “Ow.” He’d jabbed himself with something. Matt had been aboard submarines before, and knew they weren’t made for people as tall as he was. He had to crouch everywhere he went, and there was always something, a valve handle or pipe or who knew what, waiting to conk his head or poke his ribs. With only the light of the battle lanterns, it was even worse.
“Ow,” he echoed.
“Always stinks in a pigboat,” Spanky said. “That’s why they call ’em that.”
“There’s something else,” Matt said.
“Yeah,” answered Spanky, “smells a little gassy.” He cocked his head. “A little smoky too.”
They descended another ladder to the control room. There was slightly more space, but the protuberances were even more aggressive, particularly at the angle the boat lay. Spanky shone his light at something.
“I wonder,” he murmured, and flipped a switch. Much to their surprise, an eerie red light flickered to life, glowing dully in the compartment. “Night-light,” he explained. “So there’s a little juice, anyway.”
“Which way?” Matt asked the engineer, leaving the decision to him. It was stiflingly hot, and he knew they couldn’t stay below long. “Forward or aft?”
“Torpedoes would be forward, engines aft. What’s our priority?”
“Torpedoes.”
“Ain’t as thick as most jungles I’ve vacationed in lately,” Silva noted, swiping at a vine with his cutlass as the group of eight marched inland.
“This side of the island is more exposed to extreme weather,” Bradford explained. “Saplings are often swept away before they take root, I should think.”
“Mmm.”
There were still areas that were quite dense, but occasionally the trail opened into clearings, of a sort, where strange pine/palm-like trees stood tall with little undergrowth. Whenever they came to such a place, Silva covered Chack and his Marines while they split up and scouted ahead, in case someone or something intended to use it for the excellent purpose of laying an ambush. Super lizards weren’t the only creatures that knew clearings were well suited for that. When the Marines were satisfied no threat existed, the party moved on. Currently the trail was clear, but the foliage was dense on either side. Up ahead another clearing opened, however. Silva advanced slowly, BAR at his shoulder. When he reached the edge of the opening, he’d scan it for obvious threats before the Marines cast ahead once more.
“Leapin’ lizards!” he hissed. Standing in the center of the clearing, about thirty yards away, was a Grik. It was broadside-on, motionless, nose sniffing the air. The light filtering from the canopy above made it a perfect target. Even as Silva’s finger automatically tightened on the trigger, his subconscious mind noticed several startling things: the Grik was an entirely different color from any he’d seen, kind of a stripey, orange-ish-black—like a tiger—and its tail seemed longer. It wore no armor, only a ridiculous, uselessly oriented leather breechcloth. A pouch hung at its side. The most outlandish thing about it, however, had only an instant to register before Silva’s instinctual reaction to shoot it fully manifested itself. Maybe the subconscious realization threw his aim, or maybe he sensed something creeping up on
him
even as he fired. Whatever the reason, he knew the shot was bad even as the deafening bark of the BAR shattered the silence of the forest and a number of things struck him at once.
First, something
was
creeping up on him—rushing, in fact. The second thing to strike him was a club of some kind, moldy-soft on the outside, but with a core as dense as iron. Third, even as he staggered from the blow and heard high-pitched shrieks accompanying it, his subconscious mind screamed out the shocking detail he’d half missed about the Grik: it was carrying a musket.
He fell to the ground, too stunned even to defend himself, much less strike back. For a moment he had no idea what was on top of him, shrilly shrieking and landing blow after blow. As his head cleared from the initial strike, he realized whatever had “ahold” of him wasn’t very big, it wasn’t eating him, and the incessant blows didn’t really hurt. He also understood the hysterical screaming—as well as the hysterical, chittering laughter accompanying it. He opened his eyes. There, straddling his chest, was a nymph-size fury, jade eyes wide with rage, lips skinned back from perfect, if yellowed teeth, long, wildly disheveled hair revealing glimpses of the golden radiance beneath the filth.
“Oh, you monster! Vile, loathsome, horrible beast!” it ranted, still pounding him with little fists.
“Goddamn it, fellas! It’s a
girl!
” Silva almost squeaked, to a fresh round of laughter.
“Don’t you use such language in front of
me
, you filthy murderer! You . . . you
bastard!
” The blows resumed with renewed fury.
“Get this wildcat offa me! Chack, you little turd!” Silva yelped, but Chack couldn’t move; he could barely breathe. He was paralyzed by the sight of a clearly human youngling beating the stuffing out of the mighty Dennis Silva. Silva finally resorted to simply immobilizing the girl in a tight embrace. She struggled mightily, but there was no escape. Finally her shouts became desolate sobs.
“Listen . . . girlie . . . I ain’t gonna hurt you none—nobody is—but you gotta leave off whuppin’ on me, see? It ain’t polite.”
Courtney Bradford shook off the shock of the moment and raised a restraining hand to Chack’s Marines. Keje and Adar weren’t laughing. They’d instantly realized the possible significance of their discovery.
“Chack!” Keje rumbled. “If you cannot control yourself, or your Maareens, I will do it for you!” Keje might no longer be Chack’s personal High Chief, but the young Lemurian still respected him tremendously. Chastened, he and the three Marines sobered.
Bradford knelt down. “There, there, child. Please do compose yourself,” he said gently. The small girl was filthy, and dressed in rags. Clearly she’d suffered a terrible ordeal. Perhaps she was unhinged. What else might motivate her to attack Silva that way?
“Yeah,” Silva grated as softly as he could. “If you’ll cut it out, I’ll turn you loose.” The grimy, tear-streaked face nodded, and Dennis let her go. Instantly she scrambled to her feet, and bolted toward the Grik on the ground. Silva jumped up, snagging his rifle. “Shit, girlie,” he yelled, “are you nuts? The damn thing might still be alive!”
“I certainly hope he is, for your sake, you vicious, murdering villain!” the girl shouted back. Unable to shoot even if it was, with the girl in the way, Silva ran after her. So did the others. When they arrived at her side they were in for another shock. The girl had collapsed, sobbing, beside the writhing Grik. It moaned piteously and she stroked it with the utmost tenderness.
“Lawrence!” she cried tearfully. “Oh, Lawrence, you mustn’t die!”
The evil jaws opened slightly, and a long, purplish tongue moved inside them. “Hurts!” it said. The humans and Lemurians looked on, stunned.
“It spoke!” jibbered Bradford.
“Of course he spoke, you silly man! This is Lawrence,” she snarled, “my friend!” Looking up, she seemed to notice for the first time that they weren’t all humans, and her eyes went wide again, but with something besides rage. “My God!” she said, hushed. “You are not all people!”
Adar hesitantly stepped forward and bowed to the girl. If he was affected by the bizarre irony, he managed to conceal it. That must have taken considerable effort, since few loathed the Grik as much as he. “I am Adar, High Sky Priest of
Salissa
Home, and currently Steward of the Faith to the various members of the alliance under the Banner of the Trees. We are indeed ‘people,’ just a little different. Where we come from, creatures such as your ‘Lawrence’ are vicious predators, intent on exterminating us. Our Amer-i-caan friends have explained their concept of ‘pets,’ however, and though I consider it foolhardy and . . . astonishing . . . you have chosen such as this as your own, I . . .” He started to say he was sorry, but simply couldn’t manage it. “We would not have harmed it had we known,” he concluded gently, but with little conviction.