At the Midway

by J. Clayton Rogers

  "Captain...."

  "Yes, I see...."

  The serpent was moving.

  1850 Hours

  "Damn! Any other time it'd be poking its head up for all the world to see."

  "She's an air-breather," Singleton called out over the engine noise. "She'll be back up."

  "But where--"

  The answer pronounced itself dead ahead. The creature had not shifted position, but merely flopped over. She lifted her head and stared at the motor boat.

  "Ready... ready.... Okay Doc! Start the port torpedo!"

  Singleton bellowed in pain as he reached out with the hook, the gunwale harsh against his flabby midriff. The grappling hook staff, which had been fairly light when held at port arms, proved surprisingly heavy when extended full length. Singleton howled again. The muscles under his arm felt as though they were trying to jump through his skin. He missed the switch twice before finding a way to rest the hook-end on the torpedo and drag it sideways. Abruptly, the propeller began tossing up spray. Amos cast off the line.

  Instantly, the motor launch was pulled violently to port. Garrett had to cut back almost to a dead stop before bringing her under control.

  The loosed torpedo drew ahead. So slowly that at first it seemed to make no progress. The receiving masts on the pontoon leaned at a perilous angle. Another couple inches and the torpedo would slip completely underwater, immersing the receiver and ruining the electrical leads. But when the creature made a short sideways move, the pontoon turned sluggishly upon its new course.

  "Hart's got it!"

  1859 Hours

  Hart quickly reminded himself there were two steps to a course change, not just one. After the torpedo bore on the creature he had to straighten the rudder, or else run the weapon in a circle. This proved the trickiest part, because the signal switch turned clockwise only. If he over-adjusted, he would have to go through most of the blades again before hitting the proper one. Meantime, the torpedo would be slotting on the wrong course.

  "Don't miss," said Oates.

  Hart understood he was not merely stating the obvious. He was making sure Hart realized only one try per weapon was possible. If the torpedo missed, the propulsive pressure in the flask would be spent before it could be brought around for another attempt.

  The dark torpedo was invisible from the bridge. The white pontoon and the dual masts, however, could not be missed.

  "She's dead-on," Oates whispered.

  "Yes." Hart hit the wireless key four times to straighten the rudder.

  The captain made nervous sounds behind him. The motor launch and torpedo were falling further away as the Florida swerved to avoid the shallows. Hart had told him he was reasonably certain wireless control could be maintained over a distance of two thousand yards--possibly even further. The problem was that you had to see the torpedo as well as the creature to know which way to turn it.

  "Damn."

  "What is it?"

  "I told Garrett to open fire at forty yards. Looks like he let go at a hundred."

  "How close would you get to that thing in an open boat? Besides, he needs to survive long enough to get off his second shot."

  There was a bright flash. A narrow plume rose high. An instant later the explosion shook the bridge screen.

  "The reef...."

  1911 Hours

  "Jesus!"

  Garrett and the others ducked as pontoon fragments and chunks of coral rained down on them. At that instant, what frightened them more than debris or the beast was the reef. Garrett had had no idea they were so close. They were in a minefield of coral.

  He reached for the choke to slow the engine.

  There was a thud. The centerboard jumped beneath them. The three men gaped in horror at the second torpedo.

  There was an explosion--but not from the warhead. A hissing spray of water shot up.

  "The flask!" Singleton shouted in dismay.

  One of the gaskets had broken. Pressurized air that would have supplied power to the turbine engine instead created a powerful jet through the seam joining the flask to the immersion chamber.

  Garrett started to throttle back--and was stopped when a hand clamped on his. A hand that was very large and very black.

  "What are you doing? We have to stop!" He tried to pull away, only to find his arm trapped in Amos' grip. Toggling Garrett's wrist, he held up his hand for Singleton to see.

  "Look at this tiny white hand. You ever see a hand that small on a man? You really a man, Garrett? Or are you one of those women we read about, trying to do a man's job?"

  Garrett tried an awkward roundhouse with his left, only to find himself being thrown away from the cockpit. As he came round, Amos gave him a short, vicious jab. The ensign stood frozen for an instant as blood gushed from his broken nose, then dropped backwards onto the planks.

  "I'm going to chew me up a commissioned officer. And long past due, at that."

  As he stepped forward he caught a blow on the shoulder that caused him to yelp and jump back. Singleton held the grappling hook in front of him. Amos did not try to decipher what the doctor was blubbering about, but charged. This time Singleton whipped the staff sideways, nearly taking Amos flush on the neck.

  "Pretty spry, Methuselah," Amos gasped.

  "Yes," the doctor said breathlessly.

  Both were surprised by the doctor's prowess. They also knew Amos could take the staff away from him, if he was willing to pay the price.

  1915 Hours

  After all the Florida had been through, it amazed the men in Number One that the turret could still swivel smoothly, the guns decline with massive ease.

  "Look for the target, bearing Red Oh-Four--"

  A gasp from the second pointer.

  Pressed against his eyepiece, Beck exclaimed, "Sir! This can't be right! We're aiming at--"

  A hard slap to the side of his head nearly knocked him out of his seat. His earplugs went rattling across the deck.

  1917 Hours

  "Stay on with Central Station," Oates told his ordnance officer. "If the launch turns towards us before firing her second torpedo, I want a full broadside in her direction. We don't need a direct hit. One close shell will set off the torpedo. At least swamp her."

  "Sir, do you have any idea what's happening? Why would she turn on us?"

  "I don't know," Oates lied. He raised his Zeiss glass for a closer look at the mutiny Amos was staging on the motor launch.

  "I should have known better," he told himself bitterly.

  1917 Hours

  "You'll hang for this," Garrett shouted, his voice made weird by blood backing through his nose.

  "Too late, I've already been hanged." Amos looked towards the spot where he'd last seen the creature. It was gone. Hastily swiveling his eyes, he found it over a hundred yards off the starboard bow. Moving to deeper water. It seemed to be angling towards the battleship.

  "I got plenty to say and no time to say it." Leering, Amos added, "What if I turned us back on the Florida?"

  "Torpedo the ship?"

  "That would say it all."

  "They'd blow you out of the water. Us."

  "I'd be under the guns before they knew what was happening."

  The plume from the flask began to die as the pressure faded.

  "Your little bomb isn't worth shit, Doctor. It doesn't have a brain. Contrary to popular wisdom, I do. This is my ship, now. I want you two off it."

  "You're fucking crazy. Why are you doing this?"

  "You ask? You heard me, off now. Both of you can swim, can't you? Well, take those lifesavers off the sternpost. Look lively! Keep the marbles rolling!"

  Garrett sprang up. Parrying his fists, Amos doubled him with a shot to the stomach, then tossed him over the side. He nearly went over himself as Singleton brought the staff down on his back. He slipped the next blow and yanked the grappling hook out of the doctor's hands. Grabbing him by the shirt, he "oofed" as he tried to toss him the same way he'd done Garrett. But the old man w
as too heavy, so he gave him a stiff push and sent him over.

  Nursing his bruises, Amos stumbled aft, raised the lifesavers off the post, and threw them at the two heads bobbing and gasping in his wake. "They'll blow you out of the water!" he thought he heard Garrett shout. His nose twitched at the smoky fumes rising from the engine. "Last me one round longer," he prayed.

  He armed the torpedo with the grappling hook, then stepped into the cockpit and gunned the boat ahead.

  1920 Hours

  "No, not yet," Oates said tentatively. "He's not coming straight at us. It's the serpent coming on. Ring back two-thirds!"

  "Back two-thirds, sir!"

  Oates went to the speaking tubes and blew into one of them. "Take us down to sixty revolutions, then back up for ten knots!"

  "Sixty revolutions, aye sir!" came the hollow‑sounding response.

  Turning to the ordnance officer, he said, "We'll give him some space. He may be just running. Either way, you'll have a target. The serpent's coming after us, again. You'll have to try one of your miracle point‑blank shots. I'll give you a broadside when the time comes."

  Which'll be soon, the ordnance officer's expression said. He nodded grimly. The eight‑inch blast that had brought down the green-striped creature had been luck of the highest order. He was doubtful they could repeat it.

  "I don't suppose there's anything you can do," the captain asked, going to the front of the pilot house.

  Hart shook his head. "We were forced to power the rudders off the same batteries as the receivers. Which means I can juggle her some. But the launch's rudder is a lot bigger and she's under full power."

  Oates grunted. He gave no thought to stopping and picking up Singleton and the ensign. His attention was centered on the launch and the serpent.

  The creature seemed not to have been alarmed by the torpedo exploding against the reef. It was bearing in on them casually, almost thoughtfully. Trying to decide where to begin nibbling, Oates imagined.

  The motor launch streaked north. If the steward was in a warlike mood, he was either moving to intercept the creature or coming about to attack the ship. Oates focused his glasses on the cockpit in an attempt to get a better look at the man's face. Behind Amos the horizon was soft and pink. Oates registered storm clouds at the back of his mind.

  Pretty soon, he would have to come hard to starboard in order to present a broadside. Only one question remained: Who would be the target?

  "Hart, if the launch turns towards us I want you to do a lot of juggling with that switch of yours. It might help."

  Hart nodded doubtfully.

  1920 Hours

  Amos could feel the captain's eyes on him.

  "Son of a bitch is wondering what I'll do," he chuckled desperately.

  There was nothing left to go back to. The Navy had been his life. His family had been the files. And now he was in disgrace.

  He was caught between two ideas. If he wasn't a sailor‑‑what was he? Just another poor Negro, out of work and out of luck. He could not return to the Second Country, the land of the black man. Its aimless days and menial labor. He'd been at sea too long. In mind and heart, he'd severed himself from his race.

  But there was another race, also black. The Heroic Negro. The Negro of Cuba and Kettle Hill. The Negro‑‑

  "Hell, what are you saying? You mean the race of the dead niggers!"

  He glared at the Florida. Night loomed behind the battleship with all the blackness in his heart. He knew the instant Oates saw him throw Garrett and Singleton into the water every gun would be trained on him. Even if he made it past the big guns, a few men manning the rails with rifles could pick him off easily enough. Hell, the serpent was almost harmless compared to--

  He whirled.

  There it was. So close.

  Amos was midway between ship and serpent, each closing in from the opposite direction.

  "All right, Methuselah," he murmured, thinking not of Singleton, but the old black crustacean back in Virginia. "Either I'm hanged or I'm a hero. Hanged either way."

  He thought of his black mates back on board and on the island, watching. Did it matter what they thought of him?

  No. He was no longer the foe of the white man nor the friend of the black. By holding on to Gilroy's dynamite he had removed himself from the realm of human companionship. Because everyone would have died had he thrown it in one of the boilers. There was only one option now: He would accommodate the game.

  Oh Jesus, the thing was fearsome. Especially when you were alone, in a small boat...

  ...racing towards it.

  Before he'd been banished from the Fleet with the rest of his brethren, a Japanese steward had told Amos of an old Samurai trick. When they were scared out of their wits and nearly paralyzed by terror, the warriors of old would reach down, grab their testicles, and give them a good squeeze. On hearing this, Amos laughed until tears came. But the offended steward insisted it was not only true, but that it worked. With their courage restored, the Samurais would charge into the fray, hacking their enemies to pieces.

  If he could have done so, Amos would have grabbed his balls and squeezed them dry. The serpent… and those eyes! Those fucking eyes! It was looking at him!

  But the pontoon and torpedo were battling the launch sideways. To keep his course, he had to keep both hands on the wheel.

  So he howled.

  "C'mon, Jack Johnson! C'mon, Jack Johnson! C'mon, Jack Johnson!"

  The great swell of turbulence that preceded the beast shook the boat. Amos gripped the wheel more tightly.

  And there was the head. Raised. Now coming down on him. But too late. The creature had misjudged his speed, never anticipating he would come right at it. He was under the gun.

  Yet the neck stretched forever. Thick, brown, scarred. Until the mighty chest came up, hiding a heart as big as a man.

  "C'mon, Jack Johnson! C'mon, Jack Johnson! C'mon--!"

  XXXII

  June, 1908  28°20'N, 177°22'W

  From the Deck Log of the USS Florida:

  Found this entry in the diary of one of our marines, PFC Henley: "I'm alive! Oh mother, I'm alive! I'll live!" Private Henley died in the last attack.

  "Why aren't you at your station?" were Garrett's first words when Beck reached down to help him. The midshipman had raced all the way from Number One to the judas ladder amidships to give a hand to the floundering survivors of the motor launch. The ensign's words hit like stones. There was as much pain as purpose when Beck let go and Garrett fell back into the water--which was surprisingly cold. When both men were finally on board they stood shivering on the deck like explorers caught naked in the snow.

  "Ah‑ah!" Garrett chattered. "T‑towels, t‑towels!"

  "The captain wants to see you immediately," came a voice once they were finally on board. "Put some blankets on them and bring them up."

  Garrett raised his hand against the glare of the searchlights. A silhouette loomed above him.

  "Is it dead, sir?"

  "We don't know. Up, now. Doctor, if you can't climb, I'll have someone assist you."

  "I can climb," said Singleton uncertainly.

  The first lieutenant had emerged from Central Station soon after the explosion. To Garrett, he seemed like someone who had just stepped out of a boardroom. He led the way up the series of short ladders to the pilot house.

  Inside the wheelhouse, Captain Oates sat pale and exhausted on his bolted-down sea chair. He looked up at Singleton and smiled. "You've lost your hat, Doctor."

  "Sir," Garrett ventured, "we couldn't see much."

  "The launch and the serpent disappeared at the same moment. We thought that was the end of it. But just before the sun went down the lookouts spotted a blood trail."

  The engine room telegraph rang like a firebell as Oates ordered flank speed.

  "Why did he ram?" asked Hart, coming up to Singleton. "The torpedoes worked. We only needed--"

  "The seal broke," the doctor said. He looked old and
sheepish under the battle lanterns. "There wasn't any pressure in the flask."

  "Ah..." the captain nodded. "That explains part of it." Noting how the two men shivered, he brushed the air with his hand. "All right, get below. Get some warm clothes and hot coffee. We'll discuss this at length at another time."

  Almost three hours later the searchlights picked out something large off the port bow. The ordnance officer had already begun calling his gun captains when Hart leapt up and shouted, "It's my balloon!"

  The ship was stopped and a whaleboat lowered. Hart was among the first to jump in.

  The balloon hovered not twenty feet above the surface, yet no one could be seen in the gondola. Rowing under the pillow-like mass, Hart noted the absence of sandbags on the rim.

  "He didn't have much longer. He's cast off all his ballast." He cupped his hands around his mouth. "Halloa up there! Halloa!"

  A moment later, a face appeared.

  "Fritz!" Hart shouted delightedly. "Jump in the water and we'll pull you out. It's not far."

  Lieber frowned at them, then raised his eyes to the light-dappled decks of the Florida. He said nothing, nor did he jump. Instead, he turned the release valve.

  "He's going to come down dry!"

  The sailors chuckled. The very idea... to float this far out to sea and come down dry! Deftly, they maneuvered the boat so that it remained under the car.

  The moment after the basket touched the centerboard, the deflated balloon began settling down all around them. Hart caught a whiff of coal gas, but most of it had dispersed, and they were safe.