There were no breakers, only a gentle surf washing onto a beach of gray-black volcanic gravel. The bumping subsided and then stopped completely a few dozen yards from shore. All the same, no one was anxious to step into the water, regardless how shallow. Scott skillfully nosed the whaleboat through the surf until they felt a crunchy resistance as it slid to a stop. For a moment everyone looked at the few yards of water between them and land. They could actually see the bottom, but there was nervous hesitation all the same. With a short bark of a laugh, Silva hitched up his gun belt and hopped over the side. The other men sheepishly did the same and Matt stepped up through the empty seats, jumped out into the shallow surf, and waded ashore with outward unconcern. Letts and Marvaney brought up the rear. Reynolds and Scott carried a line and began looking for something to tie it to.
"You men stay here," said the captain. "Keep a sharp lookout and don't goof around. We won't be far and if we hear you shoot, we'll come running. If you have to, cut your cable and clear off the beach, but hang close enough to come back for us. If you hear us shoot, stay here and prepare to shove off. Understood?"
"Aye, aye, sir," they answered in unison.
Bradford was already hurrying excitedly away from the beach with a couple of hesitant men behind. Matt sighed and raised his voice. "We'll all stick together, if you please!"
They marched inland in a loose column of twos, watching their flanks with care. Matt had grown up around weapons and had hunted all his life, so the Springfield he carried was a familiar and welcome companion. Especially now. He and Bradford walked side by side at the front of the column, looking at their surroundings. The grass was deep, waist high in places, and the broad, spiny leaves reminded Matt of johnsongrass. There were no brambles or thorns or such, but the grass was distinctly uncomfortable to walk through. Maybe more like South Texas cordgrass, he thought. Ahead was the first herd of the animals that looked like brontosauruses. They fed on the leaves of strange-looking palms that stood in a large clump. The way they moved and the sounds they made seemed entirely appropriate and very elephantlike. Any similarity ended there. Their necks were as long as their bodies, and they stood stripping vegetation much higher than any elephant ever could have.
There were about a dozen of the animals of all sizes in the group, and as the men drew nearer, they paid them no heed. The shore party slowed their pace as they approached, but made no effort to conceal themselves. At seventy-five yards they were finally noticed, but only in passing, and without alarm. A few animals momentarily stopped their contented feeding to look in their direction. With slow, stupid, cowlike expressions, they regarded the invaders, then resumed their ceaseless meal.
"Not real concerned, are they?" Matt observed quietly.
"Perhaps they're unaccustomed to predators large enough to be a threat," theorized Bradford, "or they consider the size and strength of their herd sufficient to ward off danger. May we get still closer?" Matt looked around. There was nothing on their flanks, just knee-deep grass stretching for a distance in either direction. He could see the boat and the men they'd left with it, less than a quarter mile away. Beyond was Walker, framed by an achingly beautiful panorama, Menjangan in the background.
"A little closer, I suppose."
They crept slowly forward. Instinctively, nearly everyone stooped into a semi-crouch as they walked, their subconscious minds insisting that nothing as comparatively small as they should ever stalk anything as big as the creatures before them without making some effort to conceal themselves. All except Courtney Bradford. He remained entirely erect, with his binoculars glued to his face. "Oh, my," he repeated over and over.
At fifty yards Matt was about to call a halt when suddenly every animal in the herd stopped eating and their small heads pivoted on giraffelike necks simultaneously. The motion reminded him absurdly of antelopes and the way whole herds often changed direction as if by preplanned command.
"Uh-oh," said Letts from just behind. One of the biggest animals in the group appeared to gather itself and stretched its neck to full extension. Its sides heaved and a tremendous shrill bugling sound erupted. Other necks extended, and within seconds all the creatures were bugling and bellowing together.
"Okay, people, let's ease back a little."
Everywhere across the plain, groups of animals stared, and sounded off as well. Other creatures, the shape of rhinos, but with bony, spike-studded crests behind their heads, also began trumpeting, and one group tossed their heads and trotted to a more distant herd of brontosauruses and filled gaps in the defensive line they'd established. Together now, both groups raged thunderous defiance at the destroyermen. More interspecies alliances sprang up among the scattered herd groups. "Amazing!" Bradford gasped.
The big bull from the closest group stomped and pawed aggressively at the ground. A cloud of dust rose around him and saplings were cast aside.
"Back away," ordered the captain. He'd never seen anything like this, but whatever was going on, they were vastly outnumbered and ridiculously outmassed. Walker's guns could break up a charge if the distant creatures made one, but the nearest herd was too close for that, and he had no illusions about how effective their small arms would be. A .30-06 could kill an Asian elephant if the shot was placed just right, but where do you "place" a shot in a brontosaurus? "Mr. Bradford, let's go."
Reluctantly, the Australian turned to face him. His gaze froze, however, on something beyond Matt's shoulder and his face drained of color. Matt spun, and there, not twenty yards away, eight large lizards rose from the grass, poised as if to attack. They looked vaguely like the Menjangan lizards except they wore dun-colored fur, or possibly downy feathers, and standing upright was clearly their natural posture. They were formed in a loose semicircle that effectively blocked the men's retreat. Behind him, the bull still rioted and one of the "lizards"—the leader perhaps—opened its mouth in a silent snarl, baring a horrifying array of razor-sharp teeth. Wicked talons lengthened the four long fingers of each outstretched "hand." The creature shifted its weight like a cat about to pounce. At that instant, from the beach came the distinctive bra-ba-ba-ba-ba-bap! of a Thompson and the deeper crack of a Springfield. Matt discovered he had plenty of adrenaline left, after all.
"At the lizards, open fire!"
Just as he gave the command, the creatures struck with a piercing shriek. Three fell in the initial volley, but the things were fast and as big as a man. Silva waded forward with the BAR and Matt was deafened by the metronomic bam-bam-bam of the weapon. His rifle was too cumbersome for close quarters and he fumbled for the .45. He yanked it from the holster and flipped the safety off just as one of the nightmare creatures hurtled past a madly dodging Carl Bashear and sprang toward him. He fired four times and then leaped aside as the thing crashed to the ground right where he'd been standing. It gathered its feet and tried to lunge, even with blood pouring from its chest and its left eye blown out. He shot it twice more before it collapsed. He fired once at another as it ran past him, fixated on Glen Carter, and cursed when the slide locked back. Carter was chambering another round in his Springfield, and he glanced up in horror at the death rushing toward him. Alan Letts, hat lost in the grass, turned and fired twice into the creature, shattering its leg, and it sprawled on the ground at Carter's feet. With a quick glance of gratitude at the supply officer, Carter slammed his bolt forward and shot the lizard where it lay, still scrabbling to reach him.