As if dismissed from school, the boys broke formation and surged toward the sub. I was swept along in the rush, taking comfort in being momentarily ignored, lost in the crowd. Albemarle was yelling, "Hey! Hey! Wait!" but it wasn't until the shooting started that we all stopped short.
There was a bright spike of automatic-weapons fire from the vicinity of the submarine. I couldn't see much, caught in the sudden pileup, but I could hear an amplified voice bellow, "HALT. YOU ARE IN A RESTRICTED AREA. WE ARE AUTHORIZED TO USE DEADLY FORCE, AND WILL NOT HESITATE TO DO SO UNLESS YOU TURN BACK NOW. LEAVE AT ONCE." As the voice spoke, a harsh spotlight cleaved the mist, probing us like a boy stirring ants with a stick.
People fell back behind the Sallie or jammed into the shadows between rusty cylinders, and as I took refuge in just such a trench amid dozens of grease-smelling boys, I lost touch with Cowper. A squall of curses and complaints arose from the gang, leading me to believe all hope was lost. Then they turned on me: "You and that stupid old man! Shoulda known he was fulla shit! What are we gonna do now? Let them Marines fry our asses? " At once I was being manhandled, shoved from hand to hand out of the hiding place into the searchlight's bullying glare.
Then I was alone in the road, feeling very small beside the multiple tractor tires of the Sallie vehicle. One of my shoes had come off, and I could all but taste the cold, coarse macadam through my thin stocking. The spotlight was warm. In a reverie of hurt feelings, I shielded my eyes and began walking toward it. Fine, I thought madly. It felt good to let go. Tears streaming, I walked faster and faster, aware of nothing but my own feet and the baking noonday light. Swelling orchestral music seemed to accompany me, as if I was expected to break into some showstopping Broadway tune.
Suddenly someone snatched me off my feet and dove with me out of the light. As we hit the dirt I had a strange, strong sensation of being tackled by Santa. Then my senses returned, and I realized it was only the padded costume that made me think of Santa-it was the boy in the chipmunk suit (as if that was somehow less bizarre). Over his furry shoulder I could see row after row of great wheels lumbering by, close enough to touch.
"Sorry," he said, trying to catch his breath. "Jesus, you okay?"
My cheek stung from being scuffed on the ground. I wasn't sure what had just happened, but as the Sallie passed entirely, I saw the flattened chipmunk head in the middle of the road. Sitting up, I said, "Did you just apologize for saving my life?"
"Oh, sorry-I mean-" Before he could say more, rattling bursts of automatic gunfire broke out at the waterfront, and he threw himself on top of me, crying, "Geddown!"
But they weren't shooting at us. They were shooting at the advancing Sallie. Gleaming under the spotlight like a monstrous sowbug, the flat juggernaut maneuvered drunkenly toward the sub, where orange-vested figures could be seen running for cover. The gunfire was coming from a white Humvee parked at dockside, which was being used as a gun rest by two men in Darth Vader helmets. Flashing jets of ammo speared out from them in a twin stream, gouging nickel-bright pocks all over the crawler and leaving red afterimages hanging in the air.
The boy's body shuddered at each volley, his face screwed shut against the racket. "It's okay, it's okay," he said, more to himself than to me. He was heavy, a big guy who needed a shave, but even without his mask, he had a chipmunk quality that made me want to pet him and say, "There, there." For all the noise, I was strangely calm and couldn't bring myself to turn away from the action though I was afraid any moment a stray bullet might catch me in the eye.
There was no stopping the thing. At the last possible second, the soldiers gave up shooting and retreated to the submarine's gangway. Their Humvee disappeared from view as the hulking tractor closed with it and bowled it over the edge of the landing with a junkyard crash. Continuing on, the Sallie then struck the pivoting base of the gangway, buckling the narrow span like a Tinkertoy and causing the guards to fall out of sight. And still the machine kept on, jutting out farther and farther into space, making its own bridge to the submarine. I held my breath for the impending, catastrophic fall-Penis Patrol-but the Sallie stopped there, half its wheels frozen in midair. The sub's searchlight stayed trained on this precarious object as if staring in disbelief.
A voice issued from the deejay equipment left on the Sallie: