Jomo slung the stunner back on his shoulder and strolled back to his air-mattress on the ship's stern, never once looking back. The sentries watched him go, none of them daring to mention that they'd just lost the boat's single experienced pilot.
"Goddammit, gimme a hand here!" Brodski panted, limping behind the others. "Got a damn bad leg."
"Can't wait for you," Van Damm retorted from somewhere up ahead among the trees.
"We be there when they come," agreed Muda, pattering along after Van Damm quick and sure as a goat among the thick foliage, for all that she was bent nearly double under the weight of her own gun and ammo and the swimming gear too.
"Here, lemme help." Joan MacDonald shifted the ballast-weights on her back, took Brodski by one arm across her shoulders, and half-carried him through the screen of trees.
Brodski bit his lip, used his cane as much as he could, and didn't complain.
Benny Donato worked his wrench under a blanket-shrouded light, tightening the seal-bolt to the last turn.
"It's ready," he puffed. "That makes two of them. I have them set for fifteen minutes before dawn." He turned off the flashlight and crawled out from under the blanket, grumbling about the dangers and inconveniences of bomb-making, and why this couldn't have been finished in his nice comfortable shop in the fort.
"You get the packing tight enough, Benny?" Falstaff cut in on him. "I'd hate to have them leak."
"Any tighter and I'd break the case."
"Then let's get them down to the customers."
"Easy for you to say. These damned things are heavy."
Falstaff wasn't the quietest person moving in the dark, and Donato was little better, but they didn't have to travel far. Mary Harp met them with a whistle, and guided them to where the rope stretched down to the river. They bent and unloaded their packages and tied them onto the rope. Another whistle toward the water, and the men turned to hurry back through the trees, their mission accomplished.
"Let us know if you don't get the mines to them in an hour," Donato tossed to Mary, looking at his watch. "I hope I don't have to take those fool things apart again. That'd be a real bitch."
"Don't worry so much," Falstaff panted, tugging at his arm. "We have other work to do. I've got confidence in those two and the women with them."
"Well, maybe . . ." Donato grumped. "But cross your fingers about those mines."
From under the greenthorns on the east bank of the river, Brodski and Van Damm peered out with their optics, studying the sleeping ship.
"Hmm, looks all right, Ski. Your plan better work."
"It will. Besides, what else do you have to do on a cold morning like this?" he said, rubbing Blue Tree sap on his exposed body.
"Look up an Island woman and promise to protect her for the rest of her life."
"I never believed you were that much of a politician. You ready to swim?"
"Ja." Van Damm glanced at the dark water, and shivered. "It ain't gonna get no warmer. Let's go."
Brodski gave two tugs on the line, and both men walked gingerly into the water. The bags of rocks that hung from their belts held their feet on the bottom, and the river's current was negligible at this point. As the water crept over their heads, they held up the plastic tubes that would allow them to breathe. Aside from the cold, the work was easy so far.
Following the shore line until they felt the distance knots in the rope, they pulled their heads clear of the water and looked downstream. Against the dark bulk of the Last Resort, they could see the binnacle-light in the chart-house. Nobody was moving on deck.
Brodski patted his way along the rope toward his pre-assigned position. "Hell of a mess," he muttered. "Me, a mud marine, playing frogman!"
"Ribbit, ribbit," Van Damm grumbled back. "I like this no better than you. Cold water, no proper gear and painted blue to boot . . . ."
"Let's get on with it," Brodski whispered through his chattering teeth.
They waded silently downstream until the bow of the Last Resort loomed above them. They patted over the rough wood surface, hunting for the proper spot.
Brodski moved down the hull until he felt the warm water of the engine's cooling exhaust. Now, just five arm-lengths more, he considered. He could be a little long in his measurement, but too short would be disastrous. He gave the hull an extra forearm-length for luck, and pressed the flat of the mine against the side of the fishing boat. He counted to ten, waiting for the glue to set, and again added a little more for luck.
Done. Brodski walked slowly toward the stem, waited for a forty-second eternity until a touch on his right arm-and another on his right bun-announced that Van Damm had reached him. With another signal-tap, they half-swam/half-walked toward the agreed-upon point around the downstream hook of the island. The deepening mud told them when they'd reached it, whereupon they headed towards shore. Neither of them spoke another word until they were up against the greenthorn hedge on Jane's Island.
"Did yours stick?" Van Damm asked, scraping water off his skin.
"On time, and like advertised. How about yours?"
"I thought I was going to have to piss on it to make it work!" Van Damm snapped, with almost enough emphasis to make it noticeable five meters away.
"Well, just so long as it stuck. Let's move."
Unmindful of the scratches, they lifted the mass of the natural barbed wire and crawled under it.
"The towels should be on our right."
"Ribbet!" challenged a voice ahead of them. "How high's the water?"
"Knee deep!" replied Brodski, in his best frog voice.
"Knee deep," Van Damm echoed, right behind him.
"How do you manage to keep that Afrikaaner accent on a frog croak?" Brodski asked.
"N-natural talent," Van Damm replied through clacking teeth.
A feminine giggle answered them. Soft footsteps pattered down to the hedge.
Van Damm and Brodski traded invisible grins in the dark.
They were greeted with warm towels-and warmer female arms, and a kiss each (who can prove anything in the dark?), and were led uphill.
"Heroes' welcome," Van Damm muttered.
"Patience, Owen. It gets better."
When they reached what seemed to rival the inside of a cow for darkness, Jane's voice asked, "Did you do it?"
"If we didn't, it's the devil to pay with the cook out to lunch!" Brodski replied. "One thing's going for us though; if one falls off, it's liable to do more damage than one on the hull. They're in damned shallow water."
"Good . . . . I mentioned the tradition of the divers' return, didn't I?"