The Ninth Wave

  Mike hung over the side and suddenly he could see dozens of heads floating on the water. As if by a signal the mouths in the heads opened. Mike could see the white flashing teeth, the gaping, huge mouths, the glint of wide eyes. What the men shouted was senseless and chaotic; strangely irrelevant.

  "Me. Me. Me, I'm married," a head with a chiefs cap shouted. "Married and two kids." He roared the words in a steady monotone and his voice was unexcited, but his eyes bulged from his head and glittered with queer lights.

  "First. Me first. Broken leg," a head, with black oil covering everything except the eyes and mouth, yelled. "First, first, first." The voice was savage with determination.

  These were the only voices Mike could make out, but he realized that each man in the water was shouting out his justification, his claim to be taken out of the water first. The sound was more urgent among the men at the rear who were closest to the burning oil. Mike knew that most of the men were in shock and this accounted for their peculiar immobility.

  "We ought to go in the water after them, Mr. Freesmith," a chief in Mikes rescue party said. "They're not going to be able to get to the ladders and nets."

  "Shut up," Mike said. "Nobody goes into the water until we see if that fire is going to spread. If the ship starts going down, the suction will pull everyone in the water down with it."

  "The captain says to get the lead out of your ass and get the survivors aboard," the talker said. Mike jerked his head around. Under his huge domed helmet the talker was not smiling and Mike knew this was exactly what the captain had said.

  "Tell him they won't swim to the ladders," Mike said.

  The talker spoke into the phones. Then he looked up.

  "Captain says to get 'em moving. Any way you know how," he said. "But get going."

  Mike looked back at the water. A few feet behind the chief was a very young boy. He was shaking his head in quick negative motions as if he were denying something. One side of his face had a crusted black look to it. He was not looking up at the ship and each time he shook his head his face dipped in the water and came up glistening.

  That god damn captain, Mike thought. Get them moving how? Dirty bastard.

  "That kid out there, the one shaking his head. He isn't going to last much longer," a voice said at Mike's elbow. Mike turned and saw it was Wilson, a fat middle-aged carpenter in the rescue party. "I'll go in after him."

  "The hell you will," Mike shouted. "You want to make a damned dead hero of yourself?"

  He turned back and saw that the boy's head was moving only slightly. Mike put his leg over the wire stay and turned to the rescue crew.

  "I'll get 'em moving toward the ship," he said. "Don't any of you come over until I give the word."

  He turned and dove into the water. The kapok jacket kept him from going deep. As he started to swim, he saw that he still had his wristwatch on and he cursed. Now that he was level with them the sound was deafening and incredibly confusing.

  The boy was even younger than he had looked from the ship. The water around him was perfectly flat and a queer phosphorescent light loomed up from the bottom. Half of the boy's face was in the water and the eye that was under water was open and staring, exactly like the eye above water. The eyes moved slowly and stared at Mike. Mike reached over and pushed the boy straight in his life jacket

  Water gushed out of the boy's mouth and he spoke very deliberately.

  "Look, sir, this isn't my fault. I saw the fucking plane, but my gun wouldn't train. And I'm one of the best gunners on the ship, sir," he said in an apologetic voice. Mike realized the boy could see the bars on his shirt.

  Mike reached out and grasped the boy's hand and started to swim with him toward the destroyer. The boy's hand slipped away with a soft lubricated feeling. Holding up his hand, he saw that it was filled with black horny material. The boy's hand was pink and naked looking and from the slick raw flesh small drops of suppuration were running down the fingers. The hand had been flash-burned to a crisp and Mike had stripped off the burnt skin. The boy looked at his pink fingers and made a whimpering sound. Mike shook his hand violently, snapping the matter from his fingers.

  "Try the other hand," the boy said and brought it up from the water.

  The hand looked normal with white callouses and brown skin. Mike took it and started to tow the boy toward the destroyer. As he went past the chief he hesitated and then yelled.

  "All right, Chief, get going over to the fan-tail or you'll drown out here. Get going."

  He hauled the boy to the nearest Jacobs ladder. He started to shove the boy up the ladder. As if by a signal the other men in the water started to swim toward the destroyer. The shouting stopped abruptly. None of the men broke the water with their hands. They surged forward the way a dog swims, with no splash, heads bent forward, necks stretched, eyes bulging. They came like a swarm of lemmings; silently, uniformly, swiftly. Mike saw the eyes of the first man and knew that he saw neither him nor the boy, but only the strands of the Jacobs ladder, the round dark rungs of wood that led up the side of the destroyer to safety. The vanguard of silently swimming men reached the Jacobs ladder. They swarmed over Mike and the boy. Mike felt fingernails dig into his face, shallow rapid breaths hissed across his face, feet dug into his hips and then his back and finally his face.

  Mike slashed out with his free hand.

  "Take it easy," he yelled. "You'll kill one another. Let me get this boy on the ladder."

  The men kept coming. Mike was forced underwater. He kicked himself sideways and came up a few yards away from the Jacobs ladder, still holding on to the boy.

  Mike stared for a moment at the stream of heads. They looked disembodied and self-propelled. The heads thickened around the foot of the Jacobs ladder and then sleek, oil-covered bodies reared up out of the water, clawed at the ladder, silently fought upward. Like a long multiple-linked organism the stream of men spilled out onto the deck of the destroyer.

  "Dirty bastards," Mike said aloud. "Dirty scared bastards. If you'd slow down we'd save you all."

  He had been furiously angry when the first man crawled over him. Now, watching them, he felt a numb sort of pity for the anonymous, quiet, frenzied men. They were reduced to raw nerve, to burnt muscle, to a simple urge to exist. He knew that any of them would have calmly, quietly, desperately drowned him if that were the price of gaining the ladder.

  Mike swam around to the stern of the destroyer and saw an empty ladder dangling. He shouted, and faces appeared over the railing. He put the boy's hands on the first rung, and easily, as if he were uninjured, the boy swarmed up the ladder and disappeared over the railing.

  "Freesmith, are there any more survivors out there?" the captain shouted from the fan-tail. "Get 'em all. Every damned one. You're doing a fine job. You'll get a medal for this."

  Medal your ass, Mike thought. He felt an intense anger and wanted to swear back at the captain. He looked sideways again and watched the stream of men moving toward the ladder. The stream was moving slower, for it was made up of men who were injured or deep in shock. Occasionally one of the heads would stop and the men behind pushed over it, smashed it aside and under and continued toward the ladder.

  "I'll check 'em, Captain," Mike shouted.

  "But watch out for the transport, Freesmith," the captain yelled. "It's going to go under. Don't get caught in the suction."

  Mike looked at the transport. The oil burned in a tight circle around the ship and it was tilted almost straight up into the air. Everything that could had torn loose. The ship hung silently.

  Mike swam toward the ship, paralleling the stream of heads. Not a head turned to look at him and the only sound was the sharp intake of breath, so harsh and flat that it sounded like a chorus of hisses.

  Mike swam to within a few feet of the burning oil and stopped. He knew that the oil might spread or he might be pulled under by the suction, but he was so angry with the captain that he felt no sense of danger. As he looked at the ship his teeth chattered
with rage and he kept muttering senseless words to himself. He knew they were real words, but he did not know what they were. Deep in his mind, like a tiny crystal of logic, he knew he was in some sort of shock himself; that he was not reacting normally. He watched the ship slide slowly into the water, inching slowly downward. At the very edge of the burning water there were a few motionless heads and Mike touched one of them. The head fell limply to one side and a pair of blue eyes looked lifelessly at him and then the face buried itself in the water.

  "Dirty shit of a captain," Mike said. "Dirty lousy bastard. Get a medal for survivors. Me get a medal for survivors."

  Then he saw a huge pot-bellied chief on the transport hanging to what had once been a horizontal railing. The chief was staring down at the ring of burning water and his fat lips worked, pulled back to expose big white teeth. Mike knew the chief was so frightened of the flames that he would hang on to the railing and go under with the ship before jumping into the water.

  "Chief," Mike shouted and the man's head snapped up and looked out at Mike. "Jump into the water. Swim under water until you are clear of the flames."

  He licked his lips and glanced from Mike to the flames. Then the ship settled for a few feet in one swift rush and the chief's shoes were within a yard of the flames. Like a great overfed monkey he shinnied up the railing, his face expressionless.

  "Look, I'll show you how," Mike shouted.

  The chief looked down and Mike dove under the water and came up in the flames and threw his arms sideways. The burning oil was pushed away from him and for a few seconds he was in a circle of clear water. Then the burning oil poured back and Mike went under and came up again, throwing his arms violently to make enough splash to throw back the flames.

  This time the chief jumped directly on Mike. Mike felt strong fingers grasp his head and the breath was smashed out of his lungs. The impact carried them both under the water. Frantically Mike kicked with his legs and stroked with his arms. His eyes were open and he could see the orange tint in the water and knew they were still under the burning oil. For a moment he thought of tearing the chief's hands free, but he went on swimming. The chief's great body was clamped onto him and his swimming motions seemed utterly futile. But in a few seconds the orangish tint faded and Mike stopped swimming. They came to the surface, a few feet free of the flames.

  The chief's eyes were wide open and he stared at Mike. Oil and salt water gushed out of his mouth. His lips formed words.

  "The suction?" he said.

  "Start swimming and we'll get away from it," Mike said.

  "Can't swim."

  Mike wanted to smash him in the face, but instead he told him to roll over on his back. Obediently he rolled over and his great khaki-covered belly stuck up out of the water. Mike grabbed him by the hair. Swimming on his back Mike felt a sharp pang of pleasure as he yanked the chief's hair and heard him moan softly.

  Mike saw the transport go down. It went swiftly, without a sound and there was no suction. A circle of oil still burned on the water.

  Mike towed the chief over to the Jacobs ladder. Around the foot of the ladder there was an almost perfect semicircle of heads. They were tilted at various angles and seemed to be staring at the silver circle of the moon. They looked as if they were listening for some great submarine sound that would never come.

  Mike pushed between two heads and they swirled away, rolling loosely, almost good-naturedly. He put the chief's hands on the bottom rung and watched the huge bulk of the man become agile and alive. The chief went up the ladder without an effort and flowed over the railing onto the fan-tail.

  Along the railing the crew looked down at Mike. In the thin pure light of the moon and the flickering of the oil flames Mike saw admiration on their faces.

  "I don't think there are any more men alive out there, Mr. Freesmith," one of them said.

  Mike looked back over the ocean. There was just the circle of fire, an oil slick and the heads.

  "Pass me a line and I'll tie it to the bodies," Mike called.

  "That'll take a long time, Mr. Freesmith," a boatswain's mate said.

  "Pass the line," Mike said.

  "Aye, aye, sir," the man said. In a few seconds a line came coiling over the side, fell precisely at Mike's right hand.

  "Freesmith, what are you doing out there?" the captain yelled through the loudspeaker. "Get back aboard. We've got a sonar contact about two thousand yards away. Have to get moving."

  "I'm going to pick up the bodies, Captain," Mike said. "I'll pass a line around their chests and we can recover most of them."

  Floating on his back Mike felt at home. Somehow he was reminded of the days at Palos Verdes and the great curling lips of the combers and he felt at ease; sure of himself for the first time since he had been in uniform. He was not really interested in recovering the bodies, but he did not want to come out of the water. He wanted to stay in the ocean, swim slowly back and forth in a medium he knew absolutely and surely. The thick scum of oil made swimming harder, but it was still pleasurable. If anything happened he could swim to the black hump of the island. He felt safer here than aboard the ship; oddly disconnected with the steel hull that had been his home and prison for over a year. He was reluctant to enter it again.

  "Get back aboard ship," the captain said. "Let the bodies go."

  "Fuck you, Captain," Mike said. "I'm going after the bodies."

  "What did you say, Freesmith?" the captain said in a sharp startled voice that boomed out over the ocean.

  The crew had heard Mike's words and they started to laugh, almost hysterically, as he replied.

  "I said, Captain, we better get the bodies," Mike said. "COMSOPAC has an order out on that. The desirability of collecting all bodies after an action; good morale element; commanders to make all reasonable efforts; include as a figure in action reports; basis for commendation."

  "O.K., O.K., Freesmith," the captain said uncertainly. "Take a turn around each body so they're all attached to a single line. If we have to get under way we'll come back for you."

  Mike started to swim toward the closest body. Far below he heard the ocean tremble and knew something had exploded in the hulk of the transport. His arms rose and fell in the water, the drops turned to brilliance by the oil. He swam a breast stroke to keep his face out of the oil and he could see the whole bright surface of the ocean; the distant dark blobs of transports and AKA'S, the perfect cone shape of Savo, the incredible whiteness of the tropical clouds, the sheen of the oil, the grayness of the ocean.

  The first body was covered with so much oil that the head was only a tarry knob. Mike ran the line under the armpits, tied it with a half-hitch and moved toward the next body.

  Behind him there was a shout from the destroyer. "We're getting underway, Mr. Freesmith," the bosun shouted. "Submarine contact. I've attached the line to a cork float and it'll unreel as you pull it. We'll come back for you. You're being set toward the 'Canal by a two-knot current. Stay close to the slick."

  Mike waved his hand. He floated on his back and watched the destroyer get underway. A streak of foam stretched out from the stern and for a few seconds the ship remained motionless. Then silently it began to move, with an impossible slowness. Under the stern a ball of foam grew and shattered the surface and in a few more seconds the destroyer was cutting through the water. It went without effort or sound or light. The sharp bow cut through the slick and with pleasure Mike watched it carve through the thick oil, heel over in a sharp turn and rush out into Sea-Lark Channel.

  An hour later the destroyer returned. Mike was resting at the edge of the slick, treading water. Reaching into the slick, like it huge-beaded necklace, was a line of bodies. They bobbed and twisted in the water whenever he tugged at the line.

  For a few moments Mike had thought of towing the string of bodies to the island, but had given it up.

  The destroyer came to a smooth stop a few yards away. Mike threw the end of the line over the railing and then climbed up a Jacobs
ladder.

  "Sorry we took so long, Freesmith," the captain said. "I think the soundman got a bounced echo off the hulk of the transport or a thermal layer. Anyway it wasn't a submarine. Also took longer because the ship is crowded with survivors."

  "How are they?" Mike asked.

  Two seamen were swabbing Mike down with gasoline to get the oil off. The gasoline hurt on his shoulders and arms.

  "Pretty bad," the captain said and his voice was puzzled and somewhat resentful. "Even with the doctor and the corpsmen working on them six have already died. Nothing wrong with them. They just turn white and die."

  "I'll go help out," Mike said.

  The captain sighed and walked back toward the bridge.

  Mike walked forward to the wardroom. He opened the inner door and stood for a moment, blinking in the bright light.