Brappa was less fortunate. Quakes were common, and the hunter knew what was happening but could do nothing about it. Waves struck Brappa full force, casting his small body violently onto the rocks, knocking him unconscious and breaking his forearm. The waters receded noisily from the stony shore and within minutes the lake stood calm, stirred only by the breeze.
"Wow! Tidal wave!" Fenstermacher yelled.
Buccari heard the boatswain shouting as she ran down the hill. Fenstermacher and Gordon stumbled among the wet fir needles collecting their fishing gear. A nearby patch of moaning glories began hooting with increased frequency, as if shaking off the wetness of the lake's surge.
"You guys okay?" Buccari asked.
"Yeah," Fenstermacher said. "No problem. It was kinda fun." Shannon was right behind her. "Where's Tatum?" he asked. "Where's the raft?"
A hailing came from across the lake. Tatum, Dawson, and Goldberg stood on the beach, the partially deflated raft just visible, high on the rocks.
"There!" Buccari shouted, pointing toward the island. "Everyone all right, Sergeant?" Quinn asked, joining the cluster.
"What're they doing over there?" Buccari asked.
"Tatum asked to use the raft to check out the hot springs, Lieutenant. I said it was okay," Shannon replied. "O'Toole, Gordon! Swim over to the island and help Tatum salvage the raft." The two Marines stripped to their long underwear and waded in. Dawson and Goldberg were already swimming back. Presently the women, heavy in sodden jumpsuits, slogged from the lake and excitedly described the hot springs. Buccari watched the raft recovery and half listened to their narrative. The growing crowd buzzed with excitement. To add to their enticement the raft was dragged out of the lake at their feet, and Tatum and his helpers all enthusiastically echoed how hot the water was out by the island. Everyone was about to break ranks and go swimming.
"Sarge," Tatum said, "we should check out the island."
"What did you see, Sandy?" Shannon asked, holding up his hand.
"Nothing I could put my finger on," Tatum answered. "It just looks like, well, it's been used. Might be some paths, and I thought I heard some, eh…whistling."
"Whistling?" Quinn said dully.
"Okay, Sandy," Shannon snapped. "Scout the island. Take three men and check it out. Float weapons over on a pack shell." Shannon turned from Tatum and looked around at the assembled group. "No swimming until the raft is repaired," he ordered bluntly. The crowd grumbled their disappointment. Shannon's face reddened.
"Shut up and listen to me! This ain't no goddamn, son-of-abitching beach resort," Shannon shouted. "There will be no—I repeat—no daylight swimming. Assuming the island's clear, we'll organize swim parties, but only when the sun is down." Shannon glanced at Quinn but continued.
"All swim parties will have an armed sentry on watch. I'll say this again, and I want everyone to remember—we're strangers here. We don't know what's out there. We were shot down by hostile fire, and we're in their territory. We will stay hidden. Does everybody understand?"
Quinn nodded. "Well said, Sergeant. Let's get back to our watches. Now that we have found the hot spring we'll figure out a way to use it. Break it up."
The group dutifully made their way along the shore back to camp. Buccari drifted away, listening to the flowers moan, feeling apart from the chain of command. Hudson joined her.
"That was quite an earthquake," Buccari said.
"You mean an R-K Three quake," Hudson replied.
"Yeah," Buccari said, "That's what I meant to say. An R-K Three quake. Real poetic!" Buccari walked to the water's edge while Hudson wandered down the shoreline.
"Look, a dead fish!" Hudson shouted, jumping onto the rocks where the sandy beach ended. "The wave must've washed it ashore. If it's fresh, we can take it back for food." Hudson worked his way over the rocks to the fish and gingerly picked it up by the tail, hoisting it to eye level. "Hey, look!" he said suddenly, bending down, his new crop of blonde hair flashing in the bright morning sun.
"Jeepers! Sharl, come look!" he whispered. "First class ugly!" Hudson drew his pistol.
Alarmed, Buccari stepped across the rocks to where Hudson was stooping. Something was slumped deep in the rocky puddles. A leather membrane had unfurled and lay partially spread, and a leg equipped with ominous talons pointed into the air. Dark red blood oozed from where its ear should have been. Its mouth lay agape and a gleaming line of serrated teeth glinted in the bright sun. It was obscenely ugly. Buccari stared in disgust. Suddenly the animal's torso moved, the lung cavity slowly expanded and contracted—it breathed.
"It's alive!" she shouted, taking a stumbling step backwards. The animal remained unconscious. Buccari looked at Hudson, wondering what they should do. She moved closer, knelt down, and tentatively touched the extended membrane.
"It's covered with fur—soft fur," she said, examining it. "Look at those talons! Maybe we should shoot it and put it out of its misery. Wing looks broken. Huh! That's…not just a wing. It's an arm and a hand! This must be like the big bat that Dawson saw."
"What'll we do, Sharl?" Hudson asked, tentatively touching the wing.
"Don't know," she answered. "I don't know how badly it's hurt. If we just leave it, it may come to enough to crawl away and die in pain. Let's take it back to the cave and see if Lee can do anything." She jumped down and gently lifted the animal's head.
"How do you propose we do that?" Hudson asked.
"Take off your butt bag," she directed.
"What?"
She smiled sweetly. "That's an order, Ensign."
"Pulling rank. What if I didn't have on any underwear?" he asked, shedding his flight suit.
"You think I care? Hurry!"
Hudson did as he was told. "B-r-r-r! It's chilly," he said, looking undignified in green space thermals and boots.
Buccari spread the flight suit on the sand, and they gingerly lifted the limp animal from the rocky puddles. The creature was surprisingly light. Grasping the ropy sinews of its legs and arms, they positioned the animal's limbs within the suit and zipped it up. Buccari wrapped the arms and legs tightly, forming a strait jacket.
"That should hold it," she said. "If it starts thrashing, set it down. Watch out for the mouth."
Braan, returning from the cliffs, circled overhead, observing the events unfolding on the ground. He watched helplessly as the long-legs carried away the limp form. Craag' s «all-clear» lifted into the air, and the hunters recklessly descended. Craag stoically related the tragic events to Braan. Upon completion of his report, the warrior demanded to be blamed for Brappa' s capture, demonstrating abject sorrow to his leader. The sentries were embarrassed for the esteemed hunter.
"Craag, son-of-Veera," Braan said, the loss of his only surviving son weighing heavily on his soul. "Craag, my comrade in battle and life, despair not. The quake put the sentry Brappa down. It was not in thy power to control. The rocks trembled; the gods exhaled. To accept blame for such power is a conceit, my brave and faithful stalwart. Thou were but doing thy duty. That is all a leader can expect."