“A porker isn’t all that big,” Lieutenant Mace said. “What happens when the nessies finish yours off?”
“Minigrenades,” Falkenberg said. “Several of them in the porker, and more outside on the sled. They may not kill any nessies, but they’ll wound a couple.”
“And nessies are cannibals,” Mace said. “Feeding frenzy. You sure don’t want to be near that—”
“And won’t be,” Falkenberg said. “That will happen a couple of klicks out in the bay. We’ll be much nearer the shore.”
“We,” Lysander said.
“I had presumed you’d volunteer,” Falkenberg said. “If not, it’s no discredit. The notion of swimming out among those creatures isn’t exactly pleasant. McClaren will volunteer.”
“Oh, I’m going, Colonel. That’s not the problem.”
“What is?”
“Harv will have to come.”
“We only have two sets of scuba gear.”
“That’s enough. Colonel, you’re needed here.”
“That’s for sure,” Lieutenant Mace said.
“Mr. Prince—”
“Colonel, for God’s sake! We’re talking about swimming three klicks, then hiding out to wait for the landing boat. After that we have to take the boat. With all respect, Colonel, that’s stuff Harv and I can do a lot better than you.”
“Mr. Prince—”
“Colonel, you’re twice my age. More. How long has it been since you took out a sentry? I’d never have thought this up, but Harv and I can sure do it better than you can.”
“He’s right, Colonel,” Miscowsky said. “Only, about this Harv, maybe I ought to go instead—”
Falkenberg laughed softly. “Leave it, Sergeant. Mr. Prince, your point is made. Good luck.”
XXIII
Lysander stood waist deep in the soupy warm water. Here at one of the slough outlets the surf was mild, but he could hear crashing waves out beyond the stream mouth. There was just enough grey light to see the small whitecaps three meters away. When he put his head beneath the surface he had to strain to see the luminous dial of the compass even when he held it close to his face.
The water was warm, but cooler than the jungle had been. It felt good, but he couldn’t forget that this wasn’t the friendly Aegean on Sparta. This was Tanith, home to nessies. They’d already chased some small eel-like carnivores away.
“Good sign,” Private Purdy said. “If there’s little ones, the big ones aren’t around. Take ’em a while to chew through Nemourlon, too. Take little ones a while, anyway.”
They loaded the other sled and sent it on its way. Falkenberg’s listening gear told them when the amplifiers began playing the taped nessie calls, and shortly after they heard large creatures moving. Certainly some of them had been attracted to the sled. Some. But had all? It only took one—
“One way to find out,” Lysander muttered to himself. He splashed ashore to the stream edge. “Guess I’m off,” he said softly.
He felt Falkenberg’s hand on his shoulder. “Break a leg,” Falkenberg said.
“Sir?”
“Good luck, Mr. Prince.”
“Sir,” Lysander hesitated. The colonel’s hand was still on his shoulder. Lysander stood another moment, then sat in the warm water to put on his flippers. Harv followed close behind when Lysander dove forward into the chop. The second sea sled was waiting on the bottom.
Lysander guided the electric sled under the surf at the stream outlet, then out. When he estimated that he was thirty meters offshore, he turned west to parallel the shoreline. Tension on the tow line told him that Harv was right behind him. No need to worry about Harv. There never was.
Something large loomed ahead and he felt a moment of panic. Nothing happened. A log? Seacow? Whatever it was didn’t follow him. He guided the sea sled downward until the gauge showed twenty meters. It was pitch black, murky water and no light above, so that he could barely see the dials.
Lysander concentrated on the compass and the water speed gauge. It was difficult holding a steady course and speed with no visibility, but that was the only way to verify the position he got from the tiny inertial navigation system built into the sled. The system gave him the direction and distance of the Rochemont docking area. It seemed to be working fine.
Sparta had introduced dolphins and orcas into the planet’s seas. Both were domesticated, nearly tame, accustomed to swimming with humans. They liked being with people, swimming with them, towing them, and they were more than a match for the native Spartan sea life. Lysander wished he had orcas with him now. Lots of them for preference. A school of killer whales might be able to fend off nessies, at least for a little while. . . .
The seconds ticked away. Somewhere off to his left the other sled would be slowing. The nessies would begin to feed. He listened for the mini grenades, even though he knew they’d be too far away to detect. If the trick didn’t work—
Lysander fingered the high pressure lance. In theory you stabbed something—it was designed for sharks—with the long hollow needle, and that would release carbon dioxide under high pressure, rupturing the innards of whatever you’d stabbed. In theory it would be instantly fatal, and the victim, inflated, would float to the surface. An ugly death from an ugly weapon. Lysander hoped he’d never have to test it. There was also the question of whether the needle would penetrate a nessie’s armored hide—and what would happen if you killed a nessie and the others went into a frenzy.
After twenty minutes on course, Lysander tugged the tow line. Harv swam up beside him and took control of the sea sled. Lysander checked his tether line and let it reel out as he swam upward toward the surface.
The wind was onshore and there were whitecaps in the bay, nothing for a landing boat to worry about but quite enough chop to make it impossible to see the shoreline in the dim grey light. Instead he looked behind him. After a while there was a tiny blink from the shore as Sergeant Miscowsky briefly clicked a hooded flash. Lysander waited, and when it flashed again he was ready to take a bearing.
There wasn’t any navigation satellite system on Tanith. Governor Blaine wanted to install one, but the CD wouldn’t finance it. Sparta’s system wasn’t complete, but it was good enough to locate your position to a few meters, much better than he could do taking visual bearings in choppy seas. Here he had no choice.
The bearing was one more check on the sled’s navigator. More importantly, the flash told him that the listening gear hadn’t picked up any nessies near the shore, and none following him. Not yet . . .
After he had taken the bearing on Miscowsky’s light he couldn’t keep himself from staring off southward toward the place the other sled had gone. He couldn’t see anything. A wave broke over his head.
Enough. He thumbed his buoyancy valve to let out air, and sank slowly toward the sled.
Concentrate, he thought. Stick to your job. The sled and its tapes and dead porker would attract all the nessies or it wouldn’t. Worrying about it couldn’t change that. He ignored the tight knot in his gut, and tried not to remember vivid images of nessies tearing at each other.
Once he was below the surface he used the helmet display to get his position from the inertial system. It agreed with his visual bearings. When be was sure, he pulled himself to the sled and tapped Harv. Middleton dropped back to let Lysander take the controls.
He held his course. More images of nessies came unwanted. He tried to dismiss them, and when that didn’t work he began to recite slowly to himself. Leonidas. Megistias. Dieneces. Alpheus. Maro. Eurytus. Demaratus the lesser. Denoates. Three hundred names, the heroes of Thermopylae.
He was well into the second hundred when it was time to change course and angle in toward the Rochemont dock area.
* * *
“Major Barton!” Ace Barton woke to find his orderly calling from the bedroom door. “Major!”
“Yeah, Carruthers?”
“Cap’n Honistu said you’re needed in the staff room, sir. Looks like Falkenberg’s making his move.”
“Oh shit. Right. I’ll be right there. Have coffee ready.” There was bright light outside. The bedside clock showed an hour after sunrise. Not enough sleep, he thought.
When he stood his head pounded. Shouldn’t drink so damned much. He found vitamins and headache powder and swallowed them, poured a second glass of water and drank that. I don’t even like to drink. Rather drink than talk to those rancher types.
He dressed quickly. By the time he was done his head felt better.
The staff room had formerly been the Rochemont study, and was the kind of room that Barton would have wanted if he had been a wealthy rancher, although most of the books were ones he wouldn’t be interested in reading. He wondered what it had cost to have leather-bound volumes brought from wherever they had been made. Earth? Someday he’d have the servants unlock one of the glass-fronted book cases and see just where those had been printed. They didn’t look as if they’d ever been opened.