Daybreak
Rick tugged at Scotty's suit, then crawfished backward through the marsh
grass until he was sure the night watchers could not see him. He stood
up, and Scotty joined him. Rick motioned toward their own boat.
The boys made their way back through the swamp to the runabout in almost
total silence, each busy with his own thoughts.
Orvil Harris was crabbing as though nothing had happened, while the
night watchers stood in plain sight on the opposite shore. Orvil must
have seen the shots fired, Rick was certain. Even if he had been looking
the other way, the first shot would have caught his attention.
Or, Rick wondered, had Orvil tipped off the two guards that divers were
below? If so, the game was up. Once Merlin and company knew the payload
had fallen into the cove, they would be diving for it themselves, under
cover of guns. Merlin undoubtedly knew that the launching the evening of
the squall had gone wrong, but he couldn't know how, or where.
But somehow, Rick didn't think Orvil had been a party to the shooting.
Maybe it was stubbornness, refusing to think the crabber was involved
just because they liked him. Or maybe it was because the crabber had no
reason for helping Merlin and his gang; at least Harris had no reason
known to Rick and Scotty.
They reached the boat and conferred in whispers that were inaudible six
feet away.
"Could Orvil have put the finger on us?" Scotty questioned.
Rick shrugged. "I don't want to think so, and I don't. But I have to
admit it's possible."
"If he's in with them, they'll be diving for the 'what's-it' at first
light."
Rick glanced at the eastern sky. It was beginning to glow with the first
hint of daylight. "That's not long from now."
"How are we going to recover it first?"
Again Rick shrugged. "There's only one way. Go in and get it."
"Under those guns?"
"A diver on the bottom isn't in danger from the guns. I could find the
thing again without going into the shallows. That's what made us targets
before, because we took the easy way to locate the fish line by going
into the shallows near where I tied the line."
"Let's see your tank," Scotty whispered.
Rick unsnapped his harness release and swung the tank around. Their
probing fingers soon identified where the bullet had glanced off. There
was a dent, coated with silvery metal.
"Lead," Rick said. "Part of the slug."
"Good thing it didn't rupture the tank."
Rick shuddered. "If it had, I'd have been out of air suddenly and
would've had to come up. Listen, Scotty. My plan is a simple one. I'll
take your tank, since you have the most air, and swim right into the
cove, find the 'what's-it' and swim out again. If it's too heavy to tow
far, I can at least wrestle it part of the way, and then bury it in the
mud. Meanwhile, you get the boat out where it's clear and be ready to
pick me up."
"They'll see your bubbles, but they can't do anything about it with
rifles," Scotty pointed out. "One thing they can do, though, is jump in
after you. The cove isn't so deep that a pair of good swimmers couldn't
tackle you. The lung wouldn't improve your chances by much."
"Too true," Rick observed. "But what else can we try?"
Scotty thought it over. "Listen, we'll take the boat out right now.
You'll have to do the diving, because you know about where the thing is,
and I don't. When we get out, you go over the side. I'll run around to
the river, opposite where the guards are standing, and raise a little
fuss. That might draw their attention away from the cove."
"Okay." It made sense to Rick. "They'll see both of us in the boat, but
they won't see me get out. Only you'd better plan our course. I have no
aching desire to collect a rifle slug where it hurts."
"They may not shoot if they see we're leaving," Scotty pointed out.
"Uh-huh. And they might shoot, anyway."
"They might. But we'll be moving fast, and I'll swing that boat from
side to side like a swivel-hipped fullback. Let's get going. We don't
want too much daylight."
Scotty unsnapped his harness and Rick took his pal's tank and regulator.
They put Rick's unit in the bottom of the runabout cockpit, along with
Scotty's fins and mask. Rick put on his own fins and made sure he was
ready to hit the water at a moment's notice.
Rick went to the stern of the runabout and felt down the motor leg to
the prop to make sure it had not picked up any grass that might slow
them down. It was clear. Scotty, meanwhile, untied the boat and slid
into the driver's seat. Rick reached over the transom and pumped up the
gasoline tank to ensure plenty of pressure, then he waded to the side of
the boat and got into the seat next to Scotty.
"Pull us out to where the nose is almost projecting beyond the grass,"
Scotty whispered.
Rick did so, by grasping clumps of marsh grass and pulling the boat
along. As the bow cleared the grass, Scotty punched the starter button,
threw the runabout into gear, and shoved the throttle all the way
forward.
The runabout jumped forward, slamming Rick back against his tank. The
boat hit the shoal at the entrance and slowed for a long, breathtaking
moment, then the driving prop pushed it over into deeper water. The
stern went down and the bow lifted, and they were clear.
Scotty swung the boat to the right, putting its stern to the cove. Rick
tensed, expecting any moment to feel the impact of a rifle bullet,
either in the boat or in his own body. There was no sound other than the
racing motor, and he knew it would drown out the crack of a distant
rifle.
The distance from the cove entrance widened. "Get ready!" Scotty yelled.
"Lay flat and be ready to roll. I'll turn so the motor is moving away
from you. When I tap you, we'll be directly in line with the cove
entrance."
Rick moved out of the seat, keeping low, and lay on his side along the
gunwale, facing Scotty. He put the mouthpiece in place and made sure he
was getting air, then pulled his mask down. He was ready. The impact
with the water would be hard, at this speed, but his tank would cushion
the shock. He tensed for the signal.
Scotty swung the boat to the left, held it on course for a moment, then
began a shallow turn to the right. That way, the motor would be steering
itself away from Rick when he went over.
The boat came abreast of the cove entrance and Scotty slapped Rick on
the shoulder. Instantly Rick rolled, one hand reaching for the back of
his head, the other grabbing his mask. He hit the water on his back, his
hand and the tank breaking the shock of the stunning impact. He threw
his legs upward, and his momentum took him under the water instantly.
The racing motor receded, leaving him in silent darkness. He rolled over
into normal swimming position and consulted his wrist compass. The creek
entrance ran on a course of 80 degrees. If Scotty had gauged things
correctly, that course would take him into the cove. If Scotty hadn't,
Rick Brant would end up on the beach like a stranded whale.
Rick considered. The boat was gone, and it was extremely unlikely anyone
had seen him leave it. The turn had caused the boat to tilt, lifting the
side away from him. He was certain that the guards had not seen the
maneuver. That being so, and taking into account his distance from the
creek entrance, he thought it would be safe to look and check his
course.
He held the compass in front of his eyes, and rose to the surface. He
broke through slowly and without a splash. One look was enough. He
should have trusted Scotty. He was dead on course.
Rick went to the bottom and began the long swim, counting his leg
strokes. He and Scotty had practiced estimating underwater distance by
the number and timing of their leg strokes. It wasn't an exact method,
of course, but it was practical.
There were no underwater obstacles, and the depth was great enough. Rick
remembered from the chart that the entrance into the creek varied from
eight to eleven feet, dropping inside the creek mouth to about seven. No
bullet could harm him if he stayed on the bottom. If the night watchers
fired, the bullet would be slowed by the water.
He heard the sound of a motor and recognized it as the runabout. The
sound faded again. Scotty was going through some kind of maneuvers.
Then, in a short time, another motor made itself felt, more than heard.
The slower beat identified it as Orvil Harris's crab boat. He was
nearing the cove!
Like all divers, Rick's ears were sensitive to pressure changes. Sensing
when the depth lessened, he knew he had reached the cove itself. Now to
find the payload--if it was a payload. His groping hands began the
search.
The first foreign object he touched was a cord. It was the wrong
thickness for his own line, and he felt along it until he came to a
soft, round mass, and knew he was touching one of Orvil's crab baits. He
grinned in spite of the mouthpiece. Wouldn't Orvil be surprised if a
diver came up hanging to his bait!
He let the crab line drop and continued his search. Once, Orvil passed
within a few feet of him, and Rick wondered if the crabber had noticed
the air bubbles from his regulator.
Rising ground told Rick he had reached the end of the cove. He turned
left and held his course for about twenty feet, then turned left again,
heading back toward the cove entrance. His hands never stopped moving,
probing the mud for a trace of fish line. He crossed another of Orvil's
crab lines, and kept going until pressure change told him he was back in
the deeper water at the creek entrance. He turned right again. A check
of his compass told him he was on course.
His groping hands trailed over a thin line. He grabbed it, and stopped
his flutter kick. Then, moving with care, he turned and followed the
line. His pulse was faster now, and he rigidly controlled his breathing.
Fast breathing wouldn't do, and he would have to be careful not to let
out a sigh that would cause bubbles to gush upward in one big rush.
A hand found the end of the line and the smooth cylinder to which it was
attached. Orvil passed very close, and Rick looked upward. He could see
the white circle of water around the single propeller.
Now to find out what he had. His hands stroked it from one end to the
other. One end was rounded. The other was a circle with an odd-shaped
hole running into it. Rick poked his finger in, but couldn't feel the
end of the depression. The only protuberance on the thing was a band
near the rounded end. The band felt like metal, and had two rings
projecting from it. The rest of the cylinder didn't feel like metal. The
texture was that of a smooth plastic.
Rick lifted the object gingerly. It was hard to estimate weight under
water, but he thought ten pounds would be about right. The total length
was less than three feet. It would be easy to carry.
This time he needed a reciprocal compass course. It would be 260 degrees
going out. He oriented himself properly, picked up the cylinder, and
began the long swim back. He wondered if Merlin's guards were watching
his bubbles. He had seen no sign of bullets, but he hadn't been looking
for them. With Orvil's motor so near, it was likely he would not have
heard the slap of a bullet on the water.
Pressure told him he was out of the cove. He breathed a little easier.
Now to count leg strokes again. He looked up, and saw that the surface
of the water was shining with light, the first rays of true daylight.
Scotty would have no trouble finding him.
Because of the daylight, he continued on for a distance beyond where
Scotty had dropped him. No use giving the guards too good a shot.
Finally, exhausted, he surfaced. He lifted his mask and surveyed the
scene.
Orvil Harris was still crabbing. Rick could see the boat, but the angle
was wrong for him to see the crabber at work. He turned slowly in the
water, and saw Scotty. The runabout was floating, motor off, about a
mile away. He lifted an arm. The glint of first sunrise turned the
lenses of Scotty's binoculars into a crimson eye, and Scotty waved back.
In a few seconds Rick heard the motor start and saw the boat racing
toward him. He kept his mouthpiece in place, and floated, waiting.
[Illustration: _Now to find out what he had_]
Scotty came alongside and reached down. Rick handed him the cylinder.
Scotty put it on the seat without even looking at it. He gave Rick a
hand and pulled him over the side. He asked anxiously, "Are you all
right?"
"Done in," Rick said wearily. "But otherwise okay."
"Let's get out of here." Scotty put the runabout in gear and headed back
toward Martins Creek.
Rick sat down and picked up the cylinder. There was a gob of mud still
on it. He wiped it off with his hand and examined the thing. The
material was fiber glass set in resin, and it was designed so the
rounded nose could be removed. He didn't remove it, however. Instead he
looked at the other end, down into the hole with the puzzling shape. It
was like a cutout Star of David in shape, the hole gradually narrowing
until its apex was almost at the other end.
The light dawned. Rick's lips formed the word. "Grain."
Scotty was watching. "What?"
"Grain," Rick said again. "This thing is a small solid-propellant
rocket!"