CHAPTER 4
Talaud
Island
Lieutenant Irvin Laumer
felt the tremor through the hull of the old submarine, S-19, even
over the vibrating rumble of the big starboard NELSECO diesel. The
battered submarine was entirely afloat now, in the sandy pit they’d
carved around it, which meant the tremor must be bad indeed if he
felt it through the water. He looked at Machinist’s Mate Sandy
Whitcomb, who was tinkering with the diesel, adjusting it. Sandy
glanced back at him, catching his eye. He felt it too. Together,
they just stood there in the engine room, sweating in the dull
glare of the electric lights that glowed with the power the
generator was packing into the batteries. The tremor continued.
Radioman Tex Sheider stuck his head into the compartment through
the forward hatch. His bearded face was flanked by a pair of’Cats,
and it would have been a comical scene if not for Tex’s
expression.
“You better get a
load a’ this, Skipper,” he said.
“On my way,” Laumer
replied. “Where’s Midshipman Hardee?”
“Topside.”
Laumer exchanged
another tense glance with Whitcomb and hurried after Tex. The
almost bare aft berthing space had been converted into a workshop
where many of the boat’s systems were undergoing repair, and they
had to weave their way among the various ongoing projects before
reaching the even more cramped control room. Climbing the forward
ladder, they exited onto the deck, just in front of the conn tower
and aft of the boat’s four-inch-fifty gun.
For just a moment
Laumer looked around. The excavation around the boat had filled
with water during a small storm the week before, which meant any
remaining repairs below the waterline were out of the question. It
was just as well. The boat was as tight as they had any reason to
expect after wallowing on the Talaud Island beach for the better
part of a year and a half. The rudder, shafts, and screws seemed
relatively straight. The only thing they hadn’t been able to fix
was a warped starboard diving plane. They’d managed to straighten
it a little, so it shouldn’t cause a problem on the surface, but it
had little range of motion. Of course, the last thing any of them
ever wanted to do was take S-19 underwater again.
He quickly noted that
their tender, perhaps whimsically named USS Toolbox still floated where she should a couple of
hundred yards offshore. As an auxiliary, she carried only a few
guns to save weight for things Irvin’s project might require, but
like so many Allied ships, she was a highly modified Grik prize
captured after the battle of Baalkpan. Even as he stared at her,
Laumer began to feel a little dizzy and her masts almost seemed to
blur.
“At the mountain,
sir! Look at the mountain!” Hardee blurted. Laumer turned to see
and automatically looked up. And up.
“Jumpin’
Jehoshaphat!” exclaimed Shipfitter Danny Porter, joining them from
below. Far in the distance, a massive mushroom cloud of dark ash
piled high into the otherwise clear late-afternoon sky above the
volcanic mountain that dominated the island’s landscape. The ash
resembled a titanic, roiling, spreading blot in the
heavens.
“What do you think,
sir?” Tex asked. “Maybe it’s just a fart, like all them
others.”
“Bigger this time,”
Porter said. “Might be just clearin’ its throat for something
really big.” That was the closest
anyone had come to suggesting that the Talaud Island volcano might
“pull a Krakatoa” since Laumer’s own long-ago ill-considered
comment.
“Shut your hole, you
mindless monkey turd!” Tex demanded. “You’ll jinx us for
sure.”
“Maybe not,” Laumer
said thoughtfully. “According to reports from Mr. Ellis, and now
General Alden too, Krakatoa hasn’t ‘pulled a Krakatoa’ on this
world. They said they saw it, and it’s a humongous mother, but all
the ’Cats who hang out around there say that aside from spewing a
lot of red fire, it never does very much.”
“Well,” Porter said,
“ just because Krakatoa hasn’t ‘pulled a Krakatoa’ doesn’t mean
Talaud’s not fixing to pop its cork.”
“If you don’t shut
the hell up, I’m going to feed you to the spiderlobsters if they
come back,” Tex declared.
Laumer put his hand
on Tex’s shoulder. “Skip it,” he said. “You’re both right.” He
looked at Porter. “You do need to lay
off. You’ll upset the fellas.” He forced a laugh. “Shoot, you’ll
upset me. You’re right, though; I don’t
know anything about volcanoes, but that thing’s starting to give me
the creeps.” Even as he spoke, the tremors slowly subsided and the
relief he felt around him was palpable. He sighed. “Anyway, we’ve
got to find some way to pick up the pace. Adar hasn’t come right
out and ordered us off the project, and neither has the Skipper,
but I guarantee Toolbox has already
reported this latest burp. Her captain isn’t any happier about
hanging around here than we are, and I can’t say I blame him. If we
don’t wrap this project up pretty quick, I expect we will be ordered out.”
“Maybe the
transmission didn’t get picked up,” Tex said. “Comm’s been pretty
spotty.”
“Maybe not,” Irvin
agreed, “but they’ll send it again. It usually does get through at
night.”
“Well, so what’s
left?” asked Porter. “We’re afloat and the starboard diesel’s up
and running. We could get the boat underway . . . well . . . today,
for that matter, if only ...”
“Yeah,” agreed
Laumer, gazing at the beach-locked puddle the submarine floated in.
“If only.”
“Sid has six boats,
nearly a hundred ’Cats, and the whole Toolbox dredging us a channel. They’re going as
fast as they can,” Hardee defended.
“I know. They’re all
doing a swell job.” Laumer looked back at the mountain and rubbed
his face with his hands. “We’re going to get some ash tonight. Make
sure everyone’s under cover. Bring them on the boat if you have to.
Maybe we can get an early start in the morning.”
“Aye, aye,
sir.”
Irvin took a last
look around at the battered submarine that he was determined to
deliver—intact—back to Captain Reddy, and the ’Cats working so hard
to help him succeed. Then he glared at the mountain in the
dwindling light. He was on the very brink of accomplishing his
mission—and the almost more important mission he’d set himself: to
prove he was worthy to join the “Captain’s Companions,” those who’d
been with Reddy from the start. To be considered worthy of that,
he’d do whatever he had to—even if it killed him. To accomplish so
much only to have it threatened by a volcano, a force of nature,
seemed wildly unfair, but he would manage. Somehow, he would
succeed. Pacing to the hatch, he prepared to descend the ladder and
go back to helping Whitcomb. Before he did, he stood up straight
and shook his fist at the distant smoky peak. “You won’t beat me,”
he warned. “By God, you won’t.”