“Keep an eye on that ship,” he called. And then his body wiggled through the hatchway leading to the control room and the gunlocker.
Neil watched the patch of sail on the horizon. It was still too soon to recognize what type of ship it was. At the moment, it appeared to be an inch-square piece of cloth pasted against the sky.
Unconsciously, Neil glanced at his wrist watch, then grinned to himself as he realized he was estimating the time it would take the ship to reach them.
It was moving exceptionally fast, it seemed, with a strong wind behind it, a wind that tossed Neil’s blond hair wildly about his face.
There was a peaceful stillness to the entire scene. Neil and the machine waiting. The sea gently rolling, green and silent except for the whispered lapping against the machine. The sky-clear, blue, intense. The clouds watching quietly overhead. And the sail, a little closer now, a little larger, but still unreal, almost ghostly.
Dave’s voice broke the silence.
“Want to take these, Neil?”
He handed two rifles through the hatchway, and Neil accepted them gingerly. Dave grabbed either side of the hatchway and pulled himself up to sit beside Neil. He glanced out at the approaching sail and then lifted one of the rifles from Neil’s lap.
“I hope you know how to use that,” he said to Neil.
“I know how to squeeze a trigger. That’s about the extent of it.”
Dave raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. He looked out at the sail again and said, “Looks like we’ve got a little time yet.” He turned again to the rifle in his lap and said. “This little baby here is called the Garand rifle, better known to G.I. Joe as the M1. It’s semiautomatic, gas-operated, and clip-fed, firing a .30 caliber slug.” Dave paused and shook his head, a mild smile on his face. “My gosh, I sound like Sergeant Long,” he said.
“Who’s Sergeant Long?”
“The guy who taught me all I know about the M1 A heck of a nice guy who knew this rifle like the back of his hand.”
Neil’s eyes shifted uncomfortably to the horizon, and Dave followed his glance to the oncoming ship.
He began speaking hurriedly, as if there weren’t much time in which to give Neil all the details.
“This is a clip,” Dave said, holding out a fat, rectangular object. “Contains eight bullets. Once this is in the rifle, you don’t have to load again until you’ve fired all eight.”
“How do you load?” Neil asked.
“Simple.” He placed his fingers on a lever on the right-hand side of the rifle. “This is the operating rod. Pull it back until you hear a click.” He demonstrated. “Then let it go. That leaves this space in the top of your rifle. Slip the clip in and shove it down until the top bullet is opposite the chamber here.”
Neil pulled back the operating rod and let it go when he heard the click.
“You’ve got to be careful with that. Once you hear the click, let it alone. Otherwise, you might uncock it and the darned thing’ll come flying back and hit your hand.” He chuckled softly. “We used to call this ‘Ml Thumb’ because so many guys got smacked on the thumb when that rod snapped back.”
Neil nodded and inserted the clip into the groove on the top of the rifle.
“That’s it,” Dave said. “Right there. That’s it.”
Neil nodded and looked up for further instructions.
“Now push the operating rod forward and that puts a slug in the chamber, ready for firing. When you squeeze the trigger, the empty cartridge will fly back on the right here. When your clip is empty, it’ll fly out and make a sort of ‘twang’ sound. Then you go through the process again, putting another clip in the way I showed you. All clear?”
“Think we’ll have to use these?”
“I don’t know. In the meantime, point that the other way, and get your finger away from that trigger. I went through three years in the Army without a scratch, and I don’t intend to have you shooting me now.”
Neil pointed the rifle out at the water and smiled.
“Here,” Dave said, “you’d better put the safety on until you’re ready to shoot at something.” He reached over inside the trigger guard on Neil’s rifle and pushed a curved bar forward. “When you want to fire, just push that back again and it’ll release the trigger.”
Quickly and expertly, Dave put the safety on his own rifle and then rested the piece on his knees. He looked out over the water and said, “It won’t be long now.”
Neil looked over his shoulder and was surprised at how close the ship had come. It definitely looked like a ship now, a ship with a high prow and a big, square sail.
“I almost forgot,” Dave said, reaching into his pocket. “I ripped this compass from the instrument panel. At least we’ll be able to tell from what direction they’re coming.”
He held the big compass between his hands and waited for the needle to swing to north.
“Look at that needle,” Dave said. “Almost as if it knew we were having company. It’s pointing right at the ship.”
“Then they’re coming from the north?”
“North it is,” Dave answered.
The ship was clearly distinguishable now. It rode high on the water, a strong ship with curving prow and stern. The prow jutted high over the sides of the ship, and an animal’s head seemed to be carved into the end of the sweeping, heavy piece of lumber.
There was a stout mast in the center of the ship, and the big square sail billowed out from it, pushing the trim ship closer to the machine. But what struck Neil about the sail was its coloring. From top to bottom, as bright as a barber pole, were red and white stripes, thick, running perpendicular to the deck of the ship. “A colored sail,” Neil murmured aloud. “Yes.”
Together, they watched, their eyes squinting into the oblique rays of the sun. The ship seemed to swarm with color. Lining each side of the vessel, in a circular array of brilliance, were painted discs. Neil strained his eyes to determine the nature of these discs and then, as the ship drew closer, looming large ahead of them, he recognized them for what they really were. “Shields,” he exclaimed. “Those are shields, Dave.” Dave nodded. “I know.” His eyes narrowed, and he added, “Look at those oars. There must be at least sixteen on each side of the ship.”
The ship was in full view now, and Neil could see men scurrying busily over the deck. The wind filled the red-and-white striped sail, and seamen bent into their oars, muscular arms and backs gleaming with sweat. Together, like dancers in a ballet, the oars lifted, moved toward the stern of the ship, dipped gracefully into the ocean, and pulled forward. And the ship moved closer. Lift, back, dip, pull. Lift, back, dip, pull. Lift, back-Suddenly something stirred in the dim recesses of Neil’s mind. It was a bright October day, in Mrs. Daniels’ history class, and she was describing a ship that might have been this very one.
“Dave,” Neil said, “I may be crazy but-”
“I know just what you’re thinking,” Dave replied, nodding his head vigorously.
Slowly his fingers found their way to the trigger guard on the M1, resting there in readiness.
Neil gripped his rifle tightly, and his hands began to sweat. “Is it what I think it is?”
“It’s not the Queen Mary” Dave said.
“It’s a Norse ship,” Neil said, almost to himself.
“That’s what I think too.”
The ship lifted oars no less than a hundred yards from the time machine. A tall muscular man, his hand resting lightly on the curving prow of the ship, unslung a shield from his back and slipped it over his arm.
A blazing flash of color caught the rays of the sun, reflecting off the metal helmet that rested on his head. The helmet ended just at his forehead, and it gave his head the shape of a bullet. Fastened to either side of the helmet, and glinting in the sun, was a pair of metal wings.