He frowned. That reminded him of something else that was bothering him. As soon as the discovery of the ship had been reported, a small contingent of Sularan troops was immediately dispatched to the ruined city. They’d landed with a pair of heavy guns, their only duty being to keep an eye on the river mouth and drive away any snooping Grik ships that came nosing around. They were to remain concealed and not reveal themselves to any passersby, and only fire on anything that tried to enter the river itself. They hadn’t been on station very long, a little over a month perhaps, and a Navy ship had resupplied them just a couple of weeks before. Yet when Tolson arrived accompanying Mallory’s flotilla, after they rendezvoused east of the Bali Strait, there was no sign of the Sularans. Their guns remained, strategically placed but with vines already crawling up the carriages. A few things had been found lying about-a sword, the implements for the guns, a few personal items. That was it. He couldn’t believe the Grik had taken them. The guns had not been fired; their bores were clean. The powder kegs and shot crates were scattered and broken, but nothing had been taken. Most telling of all, if the Grik had come, they certainly wouldn’t have left the guns. The loss of the Sularans was a tragedy, but the mystery of what became of them loomed menacingly over the entire expedition.
“We’re gonna be openin’ the lake purty soon,” Gilbert warned. “Maybe you’ll get to see some o’ them big-ass duck critters!”
“What duck critters?” Dean Laney demanded grumpily, showing some mild interest for the first time since he’d set foot on the barge. The big machinist’s mate was still angry about being sent on the mission in the first place. He’d had a cushy berth back in Baalkpan, running one of the machine fabrication factories, but Laney’s biggest problem was that he was universally considered a jerk. He’d lorded it over the ’Cats in his division to such an extent that, war and all, there’d nearly been a strike. Adar and Letts hoped if they got him back aboard a ship, back within a recognized Naval hierarchy, he might settle down. He was too distracting to keep around and too useful to shoot. The scheme had worked-a little. He wasn’t throwing his weight around quite as much, but he was bitter about being equal to or outranked by men and ’Cats he’d once had under his thumb.
Gilbert stood up, pointing. “Them ones, over there! See? Hey! Mr. Chapelle, we might wanna either speed this tub up or slow it down. I don’t know which. There’s some critter here in this water that eats them things!”
They were all looking at the “ducks” now. They were huge, goofylooking things, maybe as big as a giraffe. Gilbert knew their legs were about as long as what was visible above water. A couple had reddish wattles dangling from their very ducklike bills and bluish crests on their heads. Most were a mottled brown all over, not unlike the drowned trees and other vegetation protruding from the surface of the widening swampy lake. Still several hundred yards away, the entire herd or flock or whatever it was looked directly at them, their long necks stretched out like turkeys trying to get a better view, heads bobbing almost comically from side to side. Most of the men and ’Cats on the barges were doing the same.
“I guess we should slow down,” Gilbert decided. “Last time, the thing that got one didn’t make its move until after we scared the ducks and they took to hurryin’ off.”
“Very well,” Chapelle agreed, and nodded at Bosun’s Mate Saama-Kera at the throttle. The black and white Lemurian, unavoidably known as “Sammy” now, tightened the valve with an “Ayy, ayy, sur,” and the train of barges began to slow. “How much farther to the wreck?” Russ asked.
“Yeah, where is she?” demanded Mallory anxiously.
Gilbert was flustered. He’d only recently begun Talking to officers. Having them ask him for guidance was utterly beyond his experience. He retreated a step and looked at Isak, who wore a face that seemed to say, “No good’ll ever come of puttin’ yerself forward.” Of course, it was too late for that advice. Besides, he suddenly realized he’d just now provided guidance without even thinking about it when he suggested they slow down… and they had! “Uh,” he managed, “we was a little further along when Mr. Ellis asked that damned Rasik that very thing… sirs. The ship was almost growed to the west bank, yonder, maybe a little around that bend.” He stared hard for a moment, concentrating, trying to recall. “As a matter o’ fact, I don’t remember that there bend. I b’leeve the jungle’s growed out an’ plumb gobbled up the ship!”
Gilbert was right. The closer the barges chugged to the “point,” the clearer it became that the jungle had indeed engulfed Santa Catalina. They caught occasional glimpses of rusty iron, and even a vine-wrapped cargo boom was identified, jutting from the mass. Only near the waterline were the old hull plates somewhat visible. The vines grew down to within a few feet of the water and abruptly stopped, as if something in or on the water fed on them, keeping them trimmed as high as they could reach, like trees in a goat pasture. Then again, maybe the vines couldn’t abide salty water. This lake had obviously once been smaller-and fresh-until something, an earthquake or a flood, caused a break into the estuary. Now the tide rolled in, poisoning the rotting stumps that lined a much smaller beach.
Laney was peering over the side into the brackish water as they neared the old freighter. “What about flashies?” he asked, suddenly nervous. He had a right to be. One of the few truly heroic deeds Dean Laney could claim was his work to replace Walker ’s screw with one of Mahan ’s. The dreaded flasher fish had nearly beaten him to death even through a sail they rigged to protect him.
“Cain’t be many of ’em,” Isak said with just a trace of sarcasm in his reedy voice. “I don’t think them duck-o-saurs’d just wade off in amongst’em. Maybe the water ain’t salty enough for ’em.” He grinned. “Or maybe whatever eats duck-o-saurs cleaned ’em out! Glad I ain’t a diver!”
“God damn you, Isak!” Laney snarled. “I guess we’ll find out when I tie a line around your scrawny neck and throw you in to see what eats you!”
“Silence on the barge!” Chapelle growled. “I’ll decide who gets eaten around here!” He made sure Ben Mallory wasn’t paying any attention. The Army aviator was fixated on the ship ahead. He looked at Laney and lowered his voice. “I may be an ‘officer’ now, with my own ship and everything, but except for Mr. Mallory, every human on this trip is a ‘chief ’ now. Whether they’re new chiefs or ex-chiefs, it makes no difference. You know what that means. If you’ve forgotten, you better remember right quick. There’s rules, Laney, and you’ve been on the edge of breaking one of the most important ones for a long time! Why do you think you’re here? Real officers have fancy words for it, but I call it the ‘everybody hates his guts and wants him dead’ rule. Officers have fancy charges, sentences, and lots of different punishments for it too. Chiefs only have one. Do I make myself clear?”
Laney gulped and Chapelle raised his voice just a little so the nearby’Cats could hear as well. “That reminds me. A lot of you guys are ‘new,’ and don’t know what a real hero Major Mallory is. You’re Navy… men. Destroyermen and Marines. You make fun of the Allied armies, and that’s fine. They make fun of you. That’s the way it works. But as we go aboard that ship, remember we’re all here for Major Mallory. Our reason for being here is the cargo on that ship, and that cargo belongs to him. Is that understood? He may not be ‘Navy,’ but he’s the ‘Air Minister,’ and that means he even commands the Naval Aviators, God save us. In fact, they’re the Naval Air Corps now. That means even though I command this expedition, he outranks the hell out of me.” Russ paused and glanced at Ben. He was surprised to see the flier looking back at him. He hadn’t realized he’d been talking that loud.