Doomsday Warrior 13 - American Paradise (4 page)

“Tall order,” muttered Detroit. “But I have a grenade with Killov’s name engraved on it in my bandolier.”

“AND I HAVE ARROW WITH NAME!” interjected Archer, not to be outdone.

Rock turned to the chief. “Do you have any large boats, something bigger than the skiff Murf explored with?”

“Do we
ever
man!” the chief exclaimed proudly. “You come with me—you must see our great ships.”

Chief Knudson led Rockson at a fast pace back up the spit of sand and then down over several dunes, explaining as they walked. “There is a neat little bay over here, where we anchor our twin ships.”

They climbed a steep dune. The Surfcombers’ yellow eyes, Rockson realized, were obviously a night adaptation. If it was not for the white shirt the Surfcomber chief had slipped on, Rock would have been unable to follow him in the pale crescent moon’s light. As they crested the big dune, in the phosphorescence of the sea ahead, the Doomsday Warrior made out the twin sails of two bizarre outrigger canoes. Each canoe was the size of a small cruiser, easily ninety feet long. Their shiny metal hulls glinted like sea diamonds. He whistled.

“Yeah, they’re beauties, ain’t they? And the sails are not just for wind, they’re solar powered, too! There are wind lulls for days in the South Pacific, you know.” He led Rock down to the surf, and they waded out and boarded one of the ships via a rope ladder.

Rock was amazed at the sleekness and clean lines of the ship’s design. He walked slowly down the polished deck, taking in every exquisite detail.

“Best of ship crafting,” Knudson said proudly. “Combines ancient and modern. Computers, all that stuff aboard for navigation. This ship is called the
Muscle Beach.
The other one is the
Surf City.
We named them after our ancestors’ hangouts. We can leave for Rarapani tomorrow, if you want. I assume,” he said, “that you want our help?” There was excitement in those big yellow orbs.

“That would be fine,” Rock said, sliding his hands over the polished mahogany of the helm wheel. “Tomorrow . . .”

He stared out at the waves and the stars appearing above them. Again, Rockson thought, the bony hand of Killov beckoned him into a new adventure.

Three

A
fter a good night’s sleep back in the beach shack, Rockson and his men went down to the twin, sail ships where the Surfcombers had been loading supplies since dawn. They had donned white uniforms, and natty white sailors’ caps adorned their blond heads. They looked competent.

Rock pushed a reluctant Archer up the
Muscle Beach’s
gangplank, which had been lowered to the beach. Rock had asked that Knudson load aboard as many of the packets of high explosives used on the power-tridents as they could spare. He saw the chief of the Surfcombers approaching from the ship’s bridge to greet him. “One hundred and eighty pounds of the explosives aboard, plus the weapons and supplies you requested.”

Rock realized that the Surfcombers weren’t nearly as laid back as they pretended. They must have been up at the crack of dawn to get so far in loading the two ships.

Murf handed a ship’s manifest to him listing the correct assortment of supplies for the trip, neatly checked off.

“The
Surf City
has a 12 man crew,” said Murf. “We will have the Freefighters, plus 6 experienced crew members: Knudson, myself, Salty, George, Alf and Sammy. Knudson’s our captain, Manny captains the
Surf City.
We old salts will be needed to train you and your men as sailors. Plus we’ll teach you trident throwing; you teach us use of your weapons.”

“Good. I’m very pleased,” Rock replied.

“We get underway in twenty minutes—with the flood tide. Sudden waves will flood the bay. Best have all your men hold on tight to something.”

“Sudden?”

“Don’t worry. The ships are pointed to sea. We’ll raise the sails and start tacking out the minute the waves hit the bows.”

While Archer and the other Freefighters were drafted for various labors on and below deck, the chief showed Rockson the gyro-compass in the Masters cabin below the foredeck. “Ever handle a sailboat or a Sunrigger canoe?” he asked.

Rockson had to admit he hadn’t. He had never been to sea, as a matter of fact. “I’ll catch on . . .”

“Sure. You don’t look like a landlubber. It isn’t hard, if you have sailor legs on you. We’ll train you as first mate while we sail. If you don’t catch on right away, don’t worry.”

Knudson went over the ship, explaining the sails and their functions most completely. “Know the sails and you know the ship, my friend. There’s a foresail and a mainsail—plus we also have a big spinnaker we unfurl in good weather. Now, sails operate in a different way than most people think. You can actually sail directly into the wind, if your design is right.”

Rock heard a warning siren go off on the mainmast.

“That’s one minute to wave,” Knudson said. “Here, grab one of the brass grips. They’re all over the ship!”

Rockson, as they were near the high bowsprit of the sleek white-painted
Muscle Beach,
could see the green line on the horizon.

“Oh—my God, that wave,” Rockson started, “is—”

“Coming straight at us,” the chief said. The siren was now warbling on and off. “Ten second warning!”

The waves was obviously many times the height of the ship, and still gathering. The noise it made was more like a thousand freight trains than a wave. It just
kept growing!

“Oh . . .
shit!”
Rock said.

The tidal wave hit the bowsprit with an impact that nearly knocked Rockson off his feet. But he felt an odd, rapidly rising feeling in his gut, like he was going up suddenly in a high-speed elevator. There was a torrent of spray, and when he wiped his eyes, he saw they were moving forward at a fast clip. The sister ship of the
Muscle Beach
was alongside them, riding majestically, its bow pointed high like a speedboat in the blue-green water.

Rock turned aft and saw that the beach they had just left was under water. Even the dunes beyond it barely showed.

“Some tide,” he said, prying his left hand off the brass rail. “How’d we manage to crest that wave?”

Knudson laughed. “It’s all in the design—and timing. Our pontoon—you’ll see it riding low in the water fifty feet to port—is the secret. It helps lift our keel right up out of the water when the big wave hits.

“The outrigger design was invented by Polynesians, who made long ocean voyages before western man built his first rowboat. The advantage over standard design is obvious—balance and flotation in big waves. We have made some refinements to the ancient design, of course.”

“My skiff was an outrigger, too,” said Murf, coming up alongside them. “It weathered every storm, like this ship will.”

“We have a good wind,” Knudson said, “so my crew will let up the spinnaker.” Knudson started shouting orders.

Rock watched as waterproof bags were snapped open and a giant billowing sail was lifted on high by a crew of six handling the ropes—aided by Archer. The blue sail billowed out full, and the ship gathered speed. In the distance, the
Surf City
also unfurled an orange-and-red spinnaker.

Rockson was amazed at how the big ship skimmed along the water, like some jet-propelled craft or a hydrofoil.

Murf stood proud and tall at the helm, steering her through what he said were dangerous reefs and sandbars. For the next ten minutes Rockson watched him work. Rock saw no reef in the murky green water save once, and then he was thankful for the narrow gauge of the ship—and Murf’s skill—as they rocketed past it.

Once in the open sea, in bright sunshine and modest waves, they settled down to a routine. Flying fish and dolphins trailed them; it was all sunny and beautiful. As the first day went on, there were lessons for all the Freefighters on various aspects of ship life. Archer was set to learning knots from Salty, the rather acerbic older Surfcomber with the peg leg. Rock studied navigation with Murf; Detroit was put to study the riggings and sails; Scheransky was shown the auxilliary engine and the life-support systems. Chen and McCaughlin drew the less glamorous jobs, assisting the crew in cleaning decks. Then there was weapons’ practice—for hours.

First supper aboard was a treat. Murf used a careful, long throw of a trident to spear a large flying fish in mid-leap.

“Sushi!” exclaimed Archer when, with pike and net, the Surfcombers pulled the beauteous flying fish on deck.

“You got it, Archer,”—Chen laughed—“the ocean is teeming with delicious things.” He slapped the gentle giant on his back.

After a flying fish and sea scallops meal, they continued their training. Later on in their journey, they would switch jobs, and by the time they got to Rarapani, hopefully the Rock team would be all-around sailors.

Well, Rock surmised, maybe with
one
exception. Archer, when the waves built up on the second day, appeared a bit
green.
They soared through swell after swell, up and down, up and down. The huge mountain man barfed over the side several times and spent a lot of time in the head. But Archer came around by the time the day was over. He even started to gesture animatedly and show them all the knots he had learned to make from his peg-legged instructor.

Life aboard a sailing vessel was a new and thrilling experience for all the Freefighters.

Archer was displeased when they were unable to spear more fish for several days and soon took the fishing upon himself. Archer sat in the stern’s bolted-down chair, strapped in place, his steel cord muscles at the ready, holding rod and reel. “Fish no problem,” he bragged, “meee strong!”

“If I’m right,” said Murf, “the fish
will
be a problem. But since you’re eager for supper, play out some line!”

He gave Archer instructions about not holding on too hard when he had a bite, to instead let the 4000-pound test line play out to tire the fish. But Archer, Rock knew, was too impatient to follow such advice. The mountain man planned to just haul the fish in, no matter how big it was!

At about four that afternoon, the boat suddenly lurched under Rockson’s feet, nearly throwing him over the low railing into the water. He recovered and realized what it was—
not
a sandbar in open ocean! The wild and angry cry from the stern
said it all:
the mountain man had caught himself a fish. Rockson saw it fly up into the air as he made his way astern. It was a giant swordfish, bigger than Archer and Rock laid head to head.

Archer was all red faced and gnashing his teeth, refusing to let out any line.

Detroit ran to the embattled giant and insisted, “Let out line or I’ll keelhaul you—understand?”

Archer had no idea what keelhauling was, but it sounded ominous. Besides, the giant was wearying of holding tight. Archer let out a few hundred yards, and the reel smoked with the speed of the supra-nylon cord unwinding. For five hours, he battled the swordfish until finally it was limp and alongside the boat.

They let down the dinghy to help load the swordfish up onto the deck. It was a thousand pounds at least. Enough food for the crew for a week.

“Arch, do you want to scale her and I’ll cook her?” McCaughlin said.

“MEEE CATCH-
YOU
SCALE!”

Four

E
ach evening, when everyone else had retired to his sailors’ hammock below, Rockson studied the sea charts by flashlight. He had formulated a theory about Rarapani. He was sure that the atoll was really the legendary Johnston Island, an ancient U.S. military installation. That explained the bunker fortification and maybe a lot more—like the crystal weapon. What better place to deploy a strange new weapon than a remote military island? But the description of the island baffled him.
Two
volcanoes—a large
verdant
island. That wasn’t Johnston Island, unless a lot had changed. The nuke war had spawned great earth changes. Perhaps, he reasoned, the volcanos were new. Murf had said that they both belched smoke and fire, so they were probably recent additions.

Rockson, on his lonely watch, had little to do but theorize. The helm was lashed on course, and the computer made the small adjustments to their path that were necessary from time to time. He was alone on deck, in utter darkness under a star-filled firmament. Alone, it seemed, in the whole, flat, water world. Horizon to horizon, nothing but ocean—and it would be this way for one more week. At least.

Man is so alone, he thought, as he listened to the creaking of the ship’s rigging. Then he saw the twin sails of the
Surf City
some miles distant, heading on the same course, and felt a bit less lonely.

Rock went to the panel beyond the helm and took compass readings from the illuminated globe of the computerized gyro-compass. He had to hand it to the Surfcombers for their space-age equipment.

He sat at the desk by the compass, laid out the sea charts and, taking the readings, used the ruler to draw their path. Four days out now, and less than one-third of the way. The world was big, and yet he knew it was just one of seventy million earth-type planets in a galaxy wheel of ten billion suns. He turned off the small plotting light and laid back on the cool deck staring up at the sky.

What were they
doing
up there? What were all those people on all those worlds doing? Were they voyaging across their own oceans, or making love to their three-eyed women?

Rock tried to be still and fill with the essence of the universe as the Glowers—the isolated race of glowing super-beings—had taught him. He fell asleep after a while and did not wake until the white pearl sun was coming out of the turquoise-blue waters.

The crew sang that day and every day thereafter. They sang ancient sea chants, accompanied by the concertina wielded by Knudson. Perhaps it sounded so wonderful because of the vast loneliness. On some night watches, Rock could hear similar songs wafting on the wind from their distant companion ship.

The idea of having two vessels so far apart was that if one fell into some danger, perhaps the other would be far enough away to avoid it, and yet come to the rescue.