Rising Tides d-5

by Taylor Anderson

  “Hurry up, fellas,” he murmured now and then to the party that was clearing debris from around the once opened crate, not really caring if they heard him or not. When that box and the one just next to it were completely exposed, and the deck around them was clear and swept, leaving only the damp, dark, mushy wood, he finally advanced on the crate with a wrecking bar. Ellis had opened it carefully before, and once he discovered what was inside, he’d closed it up as best he could. To Ben, it looked like the seam had survived okay. If anything, the constant humidity might have swelled the crate even more tightly shut. He hoped so, anyway. He jammed the wrecking bar between the reinforcing planks and then drove it in deeper with a heavy mallet somebody handed him. He soon had a gap, and he worked the iron bar up and down, wrenching the nails from their holes.

  He didn’t want to damage the crate too much. One way or the other, he’d decided he wasn’t leaving this place without its contents, but regardless of how he managed it, the salvage party would eventually have to offload the crates and so they needed to be structurally sound. He decided to use the same method Ellis had before, simply pry one panel away far enough to form a gap he could squeeze through. Gilbert appeared at his elbow, offering advice on how they’d done it before. He also brought one of the lanterns and set it down protectively beside him, implying that he intended to get a look inside this time as well. With a final, rending scree! the left panel released enough to allow one of the’Cats to hold it aside for them. Mallory knocked a few of the nails out, just as Ellis had done before, and after the slightest, rueful hesitation, allowed Gilbert to precede him into the crate.

  “Je-hoshaphat, there she is,” came the muffled exclamation. “First time I seen one o’ these babies since those stupid Army A-A goons guardin’ Cavite shot one down by mistake. Like that really looks like a goddamn Zee-ro!” Unable to contain himself any longer, Ben shoved his way through as well. Inside the crate, the air smelled musty, and there was definitely some mildew, but the strong scent of fresh wood, oily steel, aluminum, new rubber, and fresh paint still predominated. Gilbert was flashing the lantern in all directions, almost spastically, creating a kaleidoscope of images. He seemed most intent on surveying the dark reaches of the crate to ensure that no vermin waited to spring at them.

  “Here,” Ben said, snatching the lantern, “give me that!” He focused the flickering beam on the nearest shape and experienced a sense of almost religious joy. Dark grease still covered a bright steel prop shaft. More surface rust than Ellis had probably seen when he was there had taken hold where the grease was thin, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d feared when he saw the ship. For this crate at least, the expedition seemed to have arrived just in time. Any longer and the roots would have opened it to the salt air and the tropical rains and heat; just a few weeks of such exposure would have ruined everything. He knew some of the crates in the hold were actually in the water and the submerged aluminum and steel would be corroded beyond repair, but some spare parts would be salvageable. Maybe even more than that. Regardless, a huge grin split his bearded face as he gazed at the shiny Curtiss green color, the flared exhaust stacks, the distinctive intake and lack of nose-mounted guns that confirmed the fuselage as that of a P-40E-the most advanced fighter he’d ever flown-instead of a B, which had still been the more common aircraft.

  He knew the P-40s, and especially the Es, had been getting a bad rep out of the Philippines, but they were heavier than the Bs, and the guys there had just received them when the war started and hadn’t had time to get used to them. He’d flown both, and knew the E was better. Hell, Claire Chennault’s AVG had been kicking Jap ass with Bs in China, while The poor guys in The Philippines were cracking up more planes Trying To Take off and land in clouds of dust Than They were losing in combat. He stroked the intake fairing like he might caress a woman’s chin. They just weren’t used To Them. They’d never had a chance. He took a piece of chalk out of his pocket that he’d brought to mark the crates and drew something on the plane.

  “What’s that?” Gilbert asked.

  “An M.”

  “What’s it for?”

  Ben shrugged. “M for ‘Mallory.’ M for ‘mine.’ Whichever. But that’s my plane!”

  Ben didn’t open any more crates that day as the clearing proceeded, but he did find a couple that were damaged and he marked them accordingly. Presumably those would need the quickest attention when they were offloaded to determine if they could be salvaged as planes or parts. By midafternoon, most of the ship’s upper works were cleared, and the work party almost wished they’d waited, since the sun beat down on them unmercifully. Chapelle was right, though. Once they went belowdecks, they didn’t want to leave any hiding places up top for anything they flushed from below. Hopefully, if they encountered anything and it made it past them, it would see the lack of cover and abandon the ship for the water or the jungle. After all the ruckus and banging around they’d done during the day, they expected something akin to a disturbed hornet’s nest when they cracked the hatches, so everyone was prepared for anything when the first party entered the superstructure.

  To their surprise, nothing flushed out of the pilothouse, radio shack, or the officers’ quarters but a few of the “lizard bats” Gilbert had told them to expect. The interior furnishings were considerably more deteriorated than when he’d been there before, but as they cleared away the rubbish and filth, they discovered a number of useful items. They’d taken some long guns with them after their first visit, mostly civilian models, but all worthwhile specimens for Bernie Sandison’s guys to look at for ideas. This time they discovered a few handguns in drawers or other places that were in various stages of preservation. There was an old Mauser that something had dropped a turd right on top of and Chapelle was tempted to just throw it over the side. It was so badly corroded, he doubted it could even be disassembled. Laney found a pitted but serviceable 1911 Colt between a pair of rotting mattresses and Chapelle said he could keep it. The real prize, from a technical, and perhaps sentimental perspective, was a nickel-plated single-action Colt “Frontier Six Shooter,” in. 44-40 caliber, that they found wrapped in oilcloth inside what was probably the captain’s desk. Chapelle figured it would make a good pattern for simple revolvers they could make at Baalkpan, as well as a fitting gift for Captain Reddy. The Skipper was a Texan, after all.

  The ship’s radio equipment was all badly corroded, but some of the components were probably salvageable. Riggs and Rodriguez would be happy just to get their hands on the resisters and capacitors. Even Bakelite knobs and insulators would be welcome. A work party entered a large compartment in the aft superstructure, just at deck level, that Gilbert said they’d never explored during their brief prior visit. Chapelle was summoned and Mallory joined him in what appeared to be a dining room or lounge of some sort. As a freighter, Santa Catalina would have had at least limited accommodations for passengers. With her cargo of aircraft, she’d probably been transporting air crews, and possibly ground crews, for the planes. The earlier expedition had been unable to even speculate upon the fate of those people or the crew of the ship. The presence of firearms, still locked in a cabinet, argued that not only had no one ever made it off the ship, but they hadn’t even known they were in danger before “something” got them. Now a little better explanation emerged.

  “Say,” Russ said, looking around the ruined lounge, “that solves one mystery, anyway.”

  In the center of the compartment, partially concealed beneath overturned chairs, rotting rugs, and the detritus of marauding denizens, were a number of short, still vaguely olive-drab crates. A ’Cat kicked one open; inside was nothing but a heap of crinkled brown wax paper.

  “Tommy gun boxes,” Ben observed. “Ten each. And there’s four crates that size. That’s about right. These other boxes had ammo and twenty round sticks in ’em.”

  “So they left,” Russ said. “Well armed. No wonder they left the civvy stuff. You know? I bet those poor guys pulled in here, ship taking wa
ter, and figured their navigation was off. They might’ve thought they missed Tjilatjap somehow and went up some other river. Maybe they set out to reach where they thought it was overland and… just didn’t find it.”

  Ben gestured around. “It doesn’t look like they came back, so either they found someplace better to hole up, or something did get them.” He sighed. “Either way, at least they weren’t helpless!”

  “Yeah,” Russ agreed. “Somehow that makes me feel better too. Say, I wonder if there’s any more of those tommy gun boxes around. If they were freighting them in to Java to fight the Japs, I bet they would’ve had more than four crates!”

  By the end of the day, the ship’s upper works and most of her superstructure had been cleared away and Chapelle thought the Santa Catalina looked like a new ship. Well, not a new ship, of course, but certainly a different one. She was utterly hideous with rust and most of her deck was already badly rotted, but she did look like a ship again instead of just a bump in the jungle. They’d exhumed several machine guns, a five-inch dual-purpose, and a three-inch antiaircraft gun, but all had been disabled, probably by the crew before they left. The cannon’s breechblocks were missing and the bolts had been removed from the machine guns. Maybe the missing parts were hidden aboard, but it didn’t really matter. All the guns were badly corroded.

  Gilbert, Isak, and Laney had poked their heads below during the day, accompanied by a heavy guard. Much remained as it had been when Gilbert was there before. The forward hold was a little more flooded and the aft hold was full to the outside water level. The engine room had more water in the bilge, but nothing serious seemed submerged. The fireroom was still full up to the bottom of the boilers. The entire salvage crew moved into the now cleared but still moldy and reeking lounge and the hallway beyond, except for two squad-size guards left outside to provide security for their generators, pumps, and other heavy equipment. It seemed like a good idea. Since all the internal hatches closed, nothing could get to them from below, and they should have plenty of warning if anything tried to crawl aboard. With nearly everyone together as the sun began to set, Chapelle decided it was a good time to determine their next course of action.

  They’d arrived prepared for three possibilities. The one Mallory favored at first hadn’t involved any restorative work to the ship itself, beyond possibly getting her cargo cranes operating again. They were steam-powered, and despite the flooding it looked like they could probably return the boilers to their duty. He’d envisioned using most of Tolson ’s crew to clear an airstrip in the jungle and simply setting the crates over the side, assembling the planes, and flying them out. There were several logistical problems with that plan, not least of which being that he was the only one who knew how to fly a P-40. The other pilots he’d brought along would require extensive training just to get one of the hot ships off the ground. They’d also discovered that, of the twenty-eight planes aboard Santa Catalina, only twelve of the crates were actually in the water. It depended a lot on which ones they were-for example, if they were all fuselage or all wing crates, that was twelve planes that were almost surely write-offs to start with. If they were evenly distributed, that could mean only six were ruined. Then there were the extra engine crates, the tires, spare propellers and drop tanks… There was just too much to leave behind, even if all his pilots could fly. Best case, they’d probably get four planes out and flown to Baalkpan, and then have to ferry the pilots all the way back to Chill-chaap. Even if they managed to salvage only sixteen planes, the process might take months. The final coup de grace was administered to that plan when Ben went ashore and inspected the ground.

  “What’s the deal?” Chapelle asked.

  “There’s no way, that’s what the deal is. Look, even if the ground was flat enough-which it’s not-and even if we could clear enough of the jungle-which I don’t think we can-the dirt here will never make an airstrip. Even if we had heavy equipment, bulldozers, rollers, you name it, there’s nothing to pack down but a billion years of rotten loam. Even if you could pack it down hard enough to get a plane off, it would rut the stuff up so bad you’d have to start all over for the next one.”

  “So basically that’s out?”

  “Afraid so,” Ben replied. “The only interesting thing we found was a bunch of crunched-up ’Cat bones with a few weapons lying around.” He looked at Gilbert. “Didn’t you fellas turn Rasik-Alcas loose near here?” Gilbert nodded. “Well, it doesn’t look like he made it very far.”

  “A shockin’ tragidee,” Gilbert said matter-of-factly. “An’ he was such a nice fella too. I s’pect ol’ Rolak an’ Queen Maraan’ll be plumb heartbroke ta learn o’ his dee-mise.”

  Nearly everyone looked at Gilbert. Most had never suspected the “mouse” was capable of such… profound sarcasm. He returned their stares with raised eyebrows. “Hey,” he said, “he was alive an’ happy as a clam last time I seen him. What’s his name, Koratin, put him ashore with food an’ weapons. He didn’t kill-eem either.”

  “Well… anyway,” Chapelle continued, “that leaves us with Plan B. We offload the crates onto barges and float them downriver. You say they’re about four tons apiece? We should be able to put two crates, a complete plane, aboard Tolson, and take it to Baalkpan. Certainly not my first choice either because of the time involved, not to mention I’m not positive we can even hoist them aboard. The heaviest thing we’ve ever lifted is cannons. The crates weigh a little over half again as much. Then there’s the trim to consider. The ship’ll be top-heavy as hell.”

  “Yeah. I’m not keen on that one for a lot of reasons,” Mallory agreed. “It might be quicker than building an airstrip and flying them out two or three or four at a time, but it’s even more dangerous to a lot more people.”

  “So that pretty much leaves us with Plan C,” Chapelle said, looking speculatively around the compartment at the others present, mostly’Cats. They had the manpower and the knowledge to do the job. Most of those present had been involved in salvaging Walker, and there were a lot more workers still with the squadron waiting to come upriver. But it would be dangerous. His gaze settled on the Mice and Laney. It would be up to them, and Lieutenant Monk when he arrived, to figure out if it was mechanically feasible. “We refloat the ship and steam the whole damn thing the hell out of here.”

  That night the “natives” grew restless. They’d been restless the night before, but hadn’t been prepared to do anything about it. The weird creatures with glowing things had slain the Great Mother, after all, so surely they were stronger than they appeared. The death of the Great Mother frightened them, but stirred no desire for revenge; another female would eventually rise to take her place out of necessity. None ever aspired to, for those that bred grew to such proportions they could never leave the water again except to lay eggs. Besides, she couldn’t help but eat her young just as readily as any other predator, so her social life was inevitably somewhat limited.

  No, the natives were not particularly angry, though the strangers had disturbed their repose. But during the day, while they swam the shallows, hunting mud-grubbers, walking birds, bugs, and small shore creatures, the visitors didn’t go away. The natives assumed they would. Some were old enough to remember the strangers that had brought the Warren to this place. They had looked much like some of those now here and They had gone away. Others that came later went away as well. It was expected that these would also leave. Instead, in a single day these had completely remodeled their cozy home! They’d destroyed much long and careful labor; the redirection of vines and limbs that had ultimately formed the lush, comfortable, life-sustaining canopy that allowed the natives to move about upon the surface of their Warren even while the moisture-sucking orb traversed the empty sky. That did anger them, and collectively they decided they must make these strangers go. Or destroy them. Besides, perhaps they tasted good.

  Moe heard something. Kind of a slurp-thump in the gloom. None of the other guards nearby seemed to have noticed, but then they hadn’t spent thei
r entire lives listening to the dark, straining to hear things that would eat them. They were good warriors, he knew that. Show them something to fight and they would do well. But they were often far too “civilized” to notice things on their own. He heard the sound again and tensed, more firmly grasping the musket he’d been given. He liked the musket for the dark. It didn’t reload much faster than his heavy crossbow, but the wicked bayonet on the end might be quite handy. He strained his ears and heard more slurp-thumps in quick succession. Numerous… things were coming aboard, and they weren’t coming to stare. The sounds the night before had possessed a tentative, skittish quality. These were deliberately stealthy, purposeful. He knew the difference well. One was the sound of uncertainty, fear. The sound of prey. This was the sound of a predator.

  Quietly, he hissed, drawing the attention of the other guards. “Show no fear. Move slow, but not scared-like. Stand-to careful.”

  Lieutenant Bekiaa-Sab-At nodded and motioned for the others to rise. The guard here consisted of 2nd Squad, with six Marines-not counting Moe and herself. They were basically protecting the doorway to the lounge, while 4th Squad was forward, guarding the equipment just aft of the fo’c’sle. “Bayonets fixed?” she whispered. “Very well. Slowly bring your cartridge boxes around to the front. You two”-she gestured at a couple of Marines-“pick up a couple of lanterns, but don’t point them aft until I give the word. Also, no one is to fire without orders. Understood? ”

  There were nods, and the Marines hefted the lanterns almost casually. Bekiaa noted that one was shaking just a little. “Mr… ah, Moe?” she asked. No one knew what Moe’s real name was-least of all Moe. Before Silva started calling him that, he’d simply been known as “the Hunter.”