Killer Crabs
Author: Guy N. Smith
Date: 2017-09-12 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror
Description: In 1978 the Crabs attacked Australia's Great Barrier Reef with horrendous loss of human life. Amongst the fatalities was Harvey Logan, big-game hunter. The world believed that these terrible crustaceans had been annihilated but Harvey's son, Brock, was sure that one day they would emerge from the oceans once more on a rampage of bloody carnage. Brock was also a hunter and he waited patiently for three decades. He wanted revenge as well as a Crab trophy for his collection. Then the crabs returned, this time on the Solway Firth and Brock's hunt began.
Publisher: Signet

Killer Crabs - Kindle Version 1.0

(c) Guy N Smith 1978 - 2010

Published by Black Hill Books, November 2010

ISBN : 978-1-907846-083

First Published by New English Library (NEL) May 1978.

Converted to Ebook from original paperback by Scan2Ebook.com

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Contents

Title

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

The End

Prologue

With the coming of January the spawning cod began migrating into Vestfjorden off the bleak Lofoten Islands. In their wake came fleets of fishing boats, many manned by part-time farmers who were enjoying a brief respite from working on the land.

It was a ritual practised since Viking times, and it would continue as long as there was fish in the sea. Something in the region of 150 million pounds of fish would be hauled on board these fleets during the following three months. For these fishermen, though, it was not purely the prospect of financial rewards which drove them on relentlessly through blizzards and spumy seas, it was a way of life - a tradition.

Skipper Ol Larsen stood on the bridge of the Suelt and stared pensively at the woollen sky and the pewter sea. He barely glanced in the direction of the latest catch which his crew were in the process of hauling on deck. This was his last trip, and for him it would not have mattered had they returned to Narvik empty handed.

The dejection which he felt was only apparent to those who knew him and had sailed with him this past half century. The deep-blue eyes had lost their brightness, their zest for life, and he no longer walked tall and straight along the deck as be inspected the catches. His shoulders had become hunched and his head was bowed; even his thick, fair beard could not hide the encroaching grey hairs any longer.

He remained on the bridge staring fixedly across the grey sea, noting several other small trawlers. He envied their skippers. They would be returning here again and again.

His fingers clutched the rail until his knuckles showed white. For a few moments the grey sky above him seemed to darken as though with the coming of night. A spasm of pain seared across his chest. Then the agony vanished almost as suddenly as it had come, leaving him trembling with the relief of yet another short extension of his lifespan which his Maker had granted him. He glanced upwards, cracked lips moving, but no sound issuing from them. A silent prayer, not merely a thanksgiving but a plea that he might end his life here at sea where he had begun it.

Slowly he made his way down to his cabin on the lower deck. He knew the signs, recognised the pain for what it was, and remembered how his father, his grandfather, and three brothers had all died the same way. Angina. The hardening of the arteries, hereditary in many families. Amongst the Larsens the symptoms had been identical. Pains in the arms, and once they spread to the chest a maximum of three weeks life was all one could hope for.

Ol Larsen, still fully clad in a heavy navy-blue sweater and waterproof trousers, lowered himself on to his bunk. His eyes closed and he fell asleep almost immediately. This latest attack had drained him far more than any of the previous ones had done.

Sometime later he was aroused by a banging on his cabin door. The pounding fist became more frantic as it took him longer than ever before to open his eyes and swing his feet to the floor, He felt weak and ill, and when he tried to stand he almost fainted.

Chapter 1

The underwater world of Australia's Great Barrier Reef is Earth's most marvellous complex of coral and ocean life. The deep-blue water is so clear that one can look down from a boat to a depth of 150 feet into a fairyland forest where coral clumps glow blue, red and green with fish moving like flocks of birds amongst the branches. Yet, in all this magnificence an eternal battle for survival is being fought; predators constantly hunting their prey, the weak fleeing from the strong, hiding, hoping, with possibly only the Great White shark afforded total invincibility.Some eighty miles from Mackay, on the Queensland coast, lays the island of Hayman. It is one of a small group of islands comprising Brampton, Lindeman, Long, Southe Molle, and Daydream. Hayman consists of low hills and savannah woodlands, a squat lumpy island interspersed with tawny speargrass and eucalypt, but lacking the majestic granite crags and forested peaks of the neighbouring islands. The creviced cliffs and lichened rock of the coastline are draped with jungle growth and green pines, overlooking extensive beaches, coral shoals and sudden depths. The waters surrounding it are shark-infested, and demand the constant vigilance of helicopter patrols to warn bathers and surfers of the presence of this, the deadliest underwater attacker known to mankind.

On Barbecue Bay, Hayman Island, stands the Royal Hayman Hotel, the most luxurious residence in this small group of islands, flanked by rows of pastel lodges amidst palms, evergreens and casuarinas. The most modern of resorts, it caters for water sports, reefing, fishing, and offers a nightlife equal to that to be found in either London or New York. Plane and helicopter services bring tourists daily from both Mackay and Prosperine to this scintillating jewel set in a deep blue sea.

Below the ocean life has changed little during millions of years. Above it, Man has gained supremacy. He has not conquered the depths, neither has he explored them fully. Many of those who holiday on Hayman Island show scant interest in the underwater world beneath them. They shudder involuntarily as they listen to shark warnings, but console themselves that if they do not enter the water then the sharks cannot attack them. They have nothing to fear from the depths. They are safe on land.

Nobody really knew how long Klin had been on Hayman Island. Regular tourists could never remember Barbecue Bay without the presence of the tall rangy man, his body burned by the sun to a deep mahogany, an unkempt mane of jet-black hair, an equally wild and straggling beard and dark eyes that belied his innermost thoughts, it was impossible to judge his age to within fifteen years. The lithe body, clad only in tattered khaki shorts and sandals, moved with the agility of a twenty-five-year-old athlete. Yet the features, particularly the eyes, had a greater maturity; like those of a man bordering on forty.

Not even the locals knew much about Klin's origin. One aged fisherman spoke of a day, a score or more years ago, when an American liner had been forced to put into the bay for repairs. When it had finally left, a lanky callow youth had stayed behind, hiding in the hills for several weeks until a local family had taken pity on him and allowed him to live with them. But that was only rumour. The man who told this tale was renowned for his senile fantasies, and nobody really believed him. Nevertheless, Klin was part of Hayman Island, a living legend like the coral reefs themselves.

Klin was principally a fisherman. He was employed by the hotel, on a freelance basis, to take parties out, guiding them through dangerous waters. His fee was not small, but one had an added bonus when fishing with Klin. Not only did one arrive back safely, but one seldom returned empty-handed, and safety and sport were not usually found together around the reefs.

When not engaged in guiding, Klin would take out his own boat, and trawl after tuna and crabs. From a financial angle, the latter was the better catch, for the Queensland mud crab was rated by connoisseurs as the world's finest-tasting crustacean.

In between these pastimes he would assist Shannon, the chief shark patrol officer, going out in one of the helicopters.

‘I could use you regularly,’ Shannon told him one day. ‘You got eyes like an osprey.’

‘Your men have binoculars,’ Klin had replied, shaking his head slowly. ‘The water is so clear that you can spot a shark two hundred feet down.’

‘Maybe.’ Shannon stroked his square jaw and knew there was no way in which he would be able to change the other's mind. ‘But it ain't just eyesight, Klin. You can smell these sharks out from three hundred feet up. You know damned well you can.’

Klin knew the underwater world around the island, too. On numerous occasions he had taken underwater photographers and skin-divers on a tour of the coral, and never once had he lost a client to either sharks or sea snakes.

Yet, most of all he preferred those solitary fishing trips beneath a full moon, the slow trawl, a haul of mud crabs, and the return just as dawn was breaking.

‘You could lose your soul out there,’ he told Corder, the visiting Australian newspaper reporter as he loaded up his boat an hour before sunset. ‘Out there everything is ocean, or formed by the ocean and ocean creatures. A man gets to know himself a whole lot better than he does by sitting in the Hayman Bar.’

‘I'd like to take a trip out with you one of the nights,’ Corder said, tipping his broad-brimmed hat on to the back of his head, and exposing a chubby face, bright red from recent sunburn.

‘One of the nights, perhaps,’ Klin answered, coiling rope as he talked. ‘But not tonight. And another thing, Mr Corder, let's see a bit more in print about these damned Jap poachers. They're takin' something like fifty thousand dollars' worth of crabs a week outa these waters. Not to mention tuna. Without crabs and tuna, Hayman would turn into a ghost island in less'n a year.’

‘The Tokyo government has forbidden fishing within depths of less than four hundred fathoms,’ Corder replied, obviously quoting some press reference he had read relating to the matter.

‘Crap!’ Klin spat over the side of the small boat. ‘Bullshit and bollocks!’ His eyes narrowed and his lips were drawn into a thin line, a sure sign that he was becoming angry. ‘They might've put out that piece o' propaganda, but they do fuck all to enforce it. And the Australian government don't want to get involved, neither. Why? I'll tell you why, Corder. Because they're still shit-scared o' the Nips, jest like they was in the fucking war. Might upset trade relationships, or bring about an international incident. They sit there behind their desks getting fat arses and bellies, and ain't goin' to risk a row over a few crabs or tuna. What's Hayman Island to them, or any of these islands for that matter? Bloody nothing. Well, you don't think we're goin' to stand by and let these bleedin' Nips empty our waters do you, Corder?’

Corder stepped back a pace. It was well known on the island that once Klin stopped calling you ‘mister’ it was time to make yourself scarce.

‘I'll certainly see that the matter is brought to the attention of the people of Queensland,’ Corder promised.

‘Well, we ain't just sittin' around waiting for 'em to do something about it.’ Klin reached down into the bottom of the boat and lifted up a shotgun. ‘See this, Corder? Known as a “drilling”. Double-barrelled 16-gauge with a 7.3mm rifle barrel beneath. German made. A guy I took out last month gave it me as a present. Reckons the rifle will make a fair-sized hole in a wild boar at two hundred yards. I ain't tested it yet, but I'm betting it'll make these fucking Jap poachers dive for cover. Maybe even put a boat out of action.’

Corder gulped.

‘It isn't worth anybody getting killed for a few fish,’ he said weakly.

‘You're as bad as the fucking rest of 'em.’ Klin began pushing his boat out, his hand resting on the outboard motor. ‘If anybody threatens my livelihood, Corder, they get killed. A lot of other folks round here feel that way, too, so put that in your bleedin' paper.’

The next second the engine burst into life, drowning any reply that the reporter might have made. He stood watching until Klin was a mere speck out in the bay, and then slowly retraced his steps back to the hotel.

Klin idled along beneath the setting sun. There was no hurry.

He would not commence trawling for two or three hours yet, and he knew exactly where he was going. With confidence he backed his own intuition against the sophisticated Japanese equipment that located shoals of tuna or crabs.

After a time his thoughts turned from Corder and the poachers to a tall attractive brunette who was at present staying in the Royal Hayman Hotel. Caroline du Brunner. He could visualise her as surely as though she was in the boat with him now. The most physically perfect woman he had ever known. Firm breasts, pink nipples that changed to a deeper hue as they stiffened with arousement. Delicate white thighs, the hair between seductively trimmed. A strange girl, he decided. She couldn't be a day older than thirty in spite of the fact that she had got through three husbands. Cold and impersonal at first meeting, but if she took a liking to you then the passion was hotter than Bondi Beach in midsummer. And she had taken a fancy to Klin. He wondered why. On the face of it, he had nothing to offer. She could not possibly know about his bank balance in Mackay, the proceeds of his crab fishing which he never had the opportunity to spend. He was unsociable, abrupt, rude most of the time. He had virtually ignored her that first night they had been introduced. Maybe that was the reason, he decided. She had tired of sophistication. She needed someone more primitive - physically, of course. It had been one hell of a session in her room. She certainly had stamina when it came to sex. He could still feel the deep gouges made by her long fingernails on his shoulders and chest during those two lengthy orgasms when he had thought she was throwing a fit, tearing at his skin and pleading with him not to ease up. He hadn't. No woman had ever seen Klin spent. He always wanted more when they had had enough. The ex-wife of J. C. du Brunner, the Texan oil magnate, her last husband, had almost succeeded in bringing him to his knees. Almost, but not quite. She had finally fallen into an exhausted deep, and then he had crept from her room.

He laughed softly to himself as the memories came back to him. He could have gone to her room again tonight. Instead he had chosen to embark upon a fishing trip. No woman was going to pull the strings which controlled Klin. When he needed her again he would go to her, but not until.

He cursed as he suddenly became aware of a hardness, and a protrusion in the front of his shorts. Machine like he transferred his thoughts to the threat of the Japanese poachers. Within a couple of minutes his erection had wilted, and his lips were a thin bloodless line, the expression on his bronzed features boding ill for any who sought to take fish illegally from these waters.

He let the moon rise before he started to trawl, dropping the net over the stern, switching off the engine and letting the boat drift with the current. This was the way Klin liked to fish, as silently as a coral wraith.

The catches during the next couple of hours were light, in spite of his experience. He knew that he had chosen the right places, but his quarry had scattered. That had only come about by constant disturbance, poaching boats trawling these stretches night after night, using their sophisticated equipment to detect the shoals. It could not go on much longer.

It was sometime in the early hours of the morning, when the moon was past its zenith, that he saw the boat. It had moved silently out from behind a coral cay, and Klin could easily distinguish the four men dropping the trawl. The vessel was four times as large as his own, and carried a crew of possibly eight or nine at a rough estimation.

Klin's lips drew back in a wolfish snarl. They had not seen him, and even if they did spot him they were unlikely to be concerned at the presence of a boat manned by a single fisherman.

Klin did not start his engine. There was no need. He was drifting towards them. He merely pulled up his net in order that it would not impede his progress. Then he picked up his shotgun/rifle, and seated himself in the bows.

Nearer and nearer he drifted. Three hundred yards … two hundred … The engine of the poachers' boat spluttered into life. They were ready to trawl. They could lose him in a matter of minutes once they began to move.

Klin flipped up the peep sight on his weapon, and brought it up to his shoulder. Only then did he experience the difficulties involved in taking a sighting by moonlight. A modern telescopic sight with infrared lenses would have been necessary for him to have secured any degree of accuracy whatsoever.

‘Fuck it,’ he murmured to himself, and snapped the peep sight back. He squinted down the barrels, and attempted to use the button-type shotgun sight. It was not easy. The boat was constantly moving, riding the swell.

There were three men on the deck when he squeezed the rear trigger in frustration. He felt the thump of the stock against his right shoulder, the brief stab of flame, and the report seemed to hang on the open water like a roll of tropical thunder.

Klin had aimed at the man nearest to the bows of the boat, yet it was one of the pair standing towards the stern which he saw stagger and then fall.

‘Take that you bastards!’ he yelled aloud, instinctively aware that the other vessel was moving faster than he had thought, and his failure to make a forward allowance when firing had resulted in a fluke hit on the wrong man. It did not matter, though. They were all guilty by Klin's law of the sea, tried and proven, and already he was reloading, intent on carrying out his own death sentence on these Japanese infiltrators of Hayman fishing waters.

For a brief moment the deck, now approximately a hundred yards away, was filled with scurrying men. Possibly they had not even heard the shot above their engines or were not even aware of Klin's presence.

He fired again, this time without result. Poachers dived for cover. They knew now whence the shots had come.

Klin was reloading for the second time when the first bullet thudded into the wooden cabin, less than two feet above his head. Instinctively he rolled backwards, throwing himself flat on his face at the same time. Seconds later a hail of bullets poured into the place where he had been crouching. Now he could hear the staccato crack of rifle fire, and slugs whined about him like angry mosquitoes. He rolled over again, this time lying behind a pile of netting.

Not for a single instant did Klin experience fear. Only a sense of foolishness. He must've been crazy to have loosed off a shot at a larger, fully manned, boat without any prior reconnaissance. Heavy slugs, possibly .303s, slammed into the woodwork around him. They were shooting constantly, confident of hitting any occupant of the small boat. To have raised himself up and attempted to return the fire would have been suicidal.

Klin lay there, his weapon clutched across him, helpless. He did not pray. He was a fatalist. If one of those bullets was destined for him then it would get him. It was as simple as that. There was nothing he could do about it.

His own boat was still drifting, but the rifle fire was less concentrated now, the shooting more erratic, slugs whining over without even touching his craft. The poachers' engines were at full throttle now. They were trawling fast, moving away in the opposite direction. It appeared that the lucrative rewards of a night's haul were of more importance than exacting vengeance on one who had taken a pot shot at them. It could be, he decided, that they were confident that they had got him, and were not going to waste valuable time checking.

Only when he could no longer hear the engines did Klin rise to his feet. He stood and surveyed the sparkling moonlit water. It was totally devoid of human life.

He tried the outboard. It started with the first pull. Somehow it had escaped the barrage of rifle fire.

Once again Klin did not hurry. A glance up at the moon told him that it was around three o'clock, and now he had abandoned any ideas he might otherwise have had in connection with trawling. Almost nonchalantly he tipped the mud crabs which he had caught back into the sea. Such a small catch was scarcely worth the trouble of marketing. It was better that they returned to the depths and bred.

He settled down with the boat set on a homeward course at about three knots. The first person he wanted to see upon landing was Corder, and he was well aware that the reporter rarely rose before nine o'clock. There was no hurry.

On his left was a coral cay, jutting up out of the water like some prehistoric sea beast with an ungainly misshapen humped back. Against the background of the shimmering water it was starkly silhouetted.

At first Klin barely glanced at it. He knew almost every outcrop of coral in and around these islands. Sometimes by day he would anchor close to one of these cays and fish for blue-spotted coral trout.

Suddenly, he was alert, his left hand automatically reaching down and slowing the boat. The engine dropped to a steady chug, his speed now less than one knot.

At first he was unable to determine what it was that had attracted his attention. Many times had he passed this particular cay, both by moonlight and daylight. Somehow it looked different now. He could not explain it. Coral did not change shape in a few days. And yet ...

Then he knew exactly why he had slowed down, and for the first time in many years, possibly since the day when he had been pursued underwater by a Great White shark, he experienced the icy fingertips of fear travelling up and down his spine. For part of the coral was moving!

‘My God!’ he muttered, and slowed the engine until it was merely ticking over.

He stared again, and within a few seconds he knew that he had not been mistaken. The outcrop on his extreme left shifted position, so slightly at first that it might have been nothing more than an optical illusion caused by the movement of the boat or the waves beyond. But when it reared up so that he could see a gap beneath it he was instinctively turning the rudder so that the bows of his craft were forced away from this horrifying and inexplicable phenomenon. Curiosity overcame instinct, and with a decisive movement he brought the boat to a halt, and turned to watch.

It was some seconds before he realised that it was not the coral which was moving but something perched on it, something which blended so perfectly with its background that it became part of it.

The boat, caught in the swell, drifted in closer, and then, at a distance of no more than fifty yards, Klin was able to identify the object of his curiosity. It was an immense crab, almost the size of a small car!

Fear clutched at him again. He could see it clearly now, and, furthermore, it could see him. That was why it had changed position, sensing his presence, and turning around so that it faced him. Two eyes glinted redly in the moonlight as it regarded him without moving.

Klin no longer disbelieved that which he saw. Vainly he struggled to find an explanation. It was no oversize Queensland mud crab, that much was certain. It was a species which hitherto he had not come across, and which he knew, by all the laws of nature, had no right to exist anywhere in the Pacific or any other waters.

He thought about the gun lying close beside him, and immediately dismissed the idea. It would take more than a 7.3 mm rifle slug to so much as sting a creature that size.

The crab seemed content to squat there on the coral and watch him. The only movement came from those tiny eyes, an occasional flicker that transmitted a message of sheer malevolence.

Klin had no idea how long they stared at each other. It might have been ten seconds or ten minutes. The more he looked, the greater was his sensation of a kind of hypnotism rendering him helpless. Had the creature beckoned with one of its huge pincers he might well have slid overboard and swum towards it.

Finally, the crab itself broke the trance. It moved again, and with hardly a ripple to mark its departure it slid off the ridge of coral, and disappeared into the water below.

Klin was suddenly aware that he was both sweating and trembling. He moved with an urgency bordering on panic, slamming the throttle down to its fullest extent so that the boat shot forward with a jerk that sent him headlong on to the deck.

Only at the last moment had he remembered the coral shelf that ran below water from the cay, marked by a buoy which bobbed on his left, its warning hitherto unheeded by him.

Something scraped the bottom of the craft. He hoped that it was coral, but in his mind he had a vision of a gigantic claw reaching upwards, only to be deprived of its prey at the very last second.

Chapter 2

Dawn was just breaking when Klin beached in Barbecue Bay. With the coming of daylight he found it difficult to accept that he had actually witnessed such a horrific spectacle on that lonely coral cay. Nevertheless, he had enough faith in himself to know that it had actually happened.

‘And the first person I want to see is that fat fucker, Corder,’ he muttered to himself as he went ashore. ‘Even if I have to drag him out of his bed.’

The Royal Hayman Hotel was deserted at that hour, but the side entrance had been left unlocked in order that the early morning staff might arrive and begin their chores whilst everyone else slept. Klin entered, and made his way towards the reception where he consulted the register. Corder was booked into room 107. Klin took the elevator and got out at the second floor, making his way along the plushly carpeted corridor until he stood in front of Corder's door.

He raised his hand to knock, changed his mind, and tried the handle. The door opened silently on well-oiled hinges, and stepping inside he closed it behind him.

It took him some seconds to adjust his eyesight to the gloom of the small, curtained room. Corder lay asleep, his mouth wide open, on a three-quarter bed by the window. The bedclothes had been flung back, and Klin sniggered to himself at the sight of that obese form clad in mauve silk pyjamas.

‘Wake up, you fat pimply bastard,’ he said, shaking the reporter roughly by the shoulder.

‘What the ... ?’ Corder's eyes flickered open, and he scowled as he recognised the man by his bedside. ‘What the hell's going on, Klin? What's the idea of coming into my room? I'll -’

‘You'll just listen to what I've got to tell you, Mr Corder.’ Klin seated himself on the edge of the bed. ‘And when I've finished you'd better get straight on the phone to your news; paper, because this is the biggest story you're every likely to write.’

Corder groped for his cigarettes on the bedside table, lit one, and for the next twenty seconds gave way to a fit of retching and coughing.

‘Finished?’ Klin raised his eyebrows. ‘Because judging by the way that cancer of yours is coming on, we'd better get cracking or you're not going to make it.’

‘Cut out the funny stuff,’ Corder growled. ‘This had better be good, Klin.’

‘It is,’ Klin said, and proceeded to narrate the happenings of the previous night, leaving out only the fact that he had opened the exchange of shots with the Japanese poachers. When he had finished Corder stared at him with an expression of disbelief.

‘Hey,’ he said, ‘you haven't been drinking, or smoking pot or -’

‘Don't be bloody stupid,’ Klin snapped. ‘It happened like I told you. Now get yourself out of those bilious-coloured pyjamas and get on the phone to your editor.’

‘He'll never believe me. We've no proof.’

‘I saw it.’ Klin thrust his face close to the other's and Corder thought better of arguing and reached for his clothes. There was a saying he'd heard more than once in the bar of the Royal Hayman: ‘If Klin says so, then it's gotta be right’. Nobody ever doubted the big fellow, and Corder wasn't about to be the first He stubbed out the remains of his first cigarette and lit a second. Another bout of coughing followed.

When he had recovered himself he said, ‘We better go downstairs and use the phone in the foyer.’

Klin followed him down to the ground floor, and waited outside the tiny booth whilst Corder fumbled with coins, pressed buttons, and talked for about ten minutes. When the reporter emerged he was sweating.

‘Well?’ Klin asked.

‘They didn't call me a liar,’ Corder said scratching his head. ‘And they didn't laugh. Caused quite a stir. They wanted details. Naturally, I couldn't tell them much, only what you told me. They told me to try and get more information and ring them back later.’

‘So they actually believed you.’ Klin leaned back against the reception desk. ‘Can't really believe it myself even though I saw it with my own eyes.’

‘That crab you saw,’ the reporter paused to light another cigarette, and this time he hardly coughed at all. ‘Apparently it isn't the first that has been seen. There was some trouble about four years ago in some small seaside town in Wales. Can't remember the name of the place. Anyway, these huge crabs appeared on the coast, and caused one hell of a lot of trouble. Half-wrecked the place, and even the tanks couldn't drive 'em off. In the end they sprayed 'em with paraquat weedkiller. They reckoned it'd done the trick, but naturally there were bound to be others which hadn't come ashore. The creatures disappeared. Now they've turned up again.’

‘But how?’ Klin spread his hands wide. ‘How can crabs grow to such a size? I never reckoned there were any bigger than Queensland mud crabs.’

‘They put it down to some underwater nuclear explosion,’ Corder replied. ‘There's a guy in London, a professor who had a lot to do with these crabs in Wales. Well, since then he's been working on the assumption that someday, somewhere, they'd show up again. My paper is informing the Australian government. No doubt they'll contact England. This feller has made a study of crustaceans, probably knows more about 'em than anybody else. He'll probably fly out here to take a look for himself.’

‘Well, they ain't going to spray Barbecue Bay with paraquat,’ Klin snapped. ‘If they did that then there wouldn't be any crabs or other fish left for anybody. Which reminds me, what are you doing about these poachers? I'm more worried about getting something done to stop them than a few oversize crabs which probably we won't ever see again.’

‘It'll get a mention,’ Corder said, and hoped that Klin would not pursue the matter. ‘Right now all that concerned the reporter was crabs. Giant ones.’

‘Well, there's a meeting at my place tonight.’ Klin turned towards the door. ‘Most of the local fishermen on Hayman will be there. If nobody else is prepared to do anything about these Japs then we're going to see to it ourselves.’

Corder smiled. Things were warming up all round, and he envisaged a prolonged stay on the island with all the amenities of the luxurious hotel going on his expense account. There were many worse places than Hayman Island where a run-of-the-mill reporter could find himself stranded.

Later that evening the living room of Klin's lodge, situated in a grove of palm trees only a few hundred yards from the Royal Hayman Hotel, was already crowded. Klin gazed round at his audience. It seemed that every local fisherman had turned up. The latecomers sat on the steps outside, all eyes turned towards the tall man who occupied a straight-backed chair in the centre of the room.

For years a rivalry had existed between Klin and these men. Even now they still regarded him as an outsider, one who had appeared on the scene and had succeeded in making a better living from the sea than they did. Proof of that was to be seen in this fine pastel lodge. All of them lived in huts further inland, a kind of ghetto some ten minutes' walk from the beach. But tonight their resentment did not show in their expressions as they looked eagerly towards this man. They needed a leader, a champion. Klin was their unanimous choice in spite of their dislike of him.

Klin did a rapid count of those present, and nodded his satisfaction. Numbers were what was needed if the poaching threat was to be combated successfully.

‘OK,’ he began, standing up so that even those outside could see him. ‘We all know why we're here tonight. If something isn't done quickly there'll be no fishing at all in Barbecue Bay, or around any of the islands, by this time next year. I had a run-in with a bunch of Japs last night.’

He proceeded to relate the events of the past night, omitting his encounter with the giant crab. They would find out all about that in due course, but for the moment he did not want any diversions from the business in hand. The fishermen grunted both their anger at the audacity of the poachers, and their approval at the action which Klin had taken. ‘They're armed,’ Klin concluded. ‘And they'll not hesitate to shoot. I want to make that quite dear. The government won't intervene. Oh, sure, they'll bring in legislation, but they won't enforce it. It's up to us. Any guy that wants to opt out speak up now. I won't blame them. Any one of us might get killed. But we've no alternative other than to fight 'em the way they understand. With guns. It means regular patrols at night. Now, how many of you own a gun? Any sort, it doesn't matter.’

About fifteen hands were raised. Klin spent the next ten minutes questioning these men about their weapons. Mostly they were battered old shotguns that had been procured from tourists and visiting sportsmen. Three possessed sporting rifles.

‘Right,’ Klin said. ‘It doesn't actually turn us into an army, but at least we can get off a shot or two. Now, we want to arrange a nightly patrol. Six or seven of us. There are enough of us to organise it so that we patrol one night and have two nights off, starting with the first patrol in about four hours' time. So I want some instant volunteers.’

Again every hand, both inside and outside the room, was raised. Klin smiled. The Hayman fishermen were angry. They had courage, too. There was not a single defaulter amongst them. Methodically he singled out the seven most suitable men. Show the best of your army first, was his motto. Hit the enemy hardest, and use the element of surprise. He knew that the first encounter would probably be the fiercest.

‘Now, get yourselves fixed up with weapons. Use two boats and keep in sight of each other. When you see a Jap trawler, close in on it and start shooting. Try and get it between a crossfire. Cut your engines and drift in to 'em. Surprise will be your greatest weapon.’

After a few minutes' discussion, the meeting broke up. The fishermen returned to their homes, some to make ready for the first sortie against the poachers, others to look out weapons that would be vital to the success of this vigilante patrol.

Klin stood in his doorway looking out across Barbecue Bay. Perhaps he should have led the first fleet of angry fishermen.

It did not really matter, though. Every one of them was determined and angry. They had the guts to fight.

In his heart he knew why he would not be out there with these men once the full moon rose. There was a slight bulge in the front of his shorts which proceeded to grow rapidly once his thoughts were fully centred on it. He had not expected to need a woman again so quickly, and it was one call which Klin could not ignore. Already he was willing nightfall. Once the mantle of darkness had fallen over the island he would go to Caroline du Brunner's room. Poachers and giant crabs would take a secondary place for a few hours.

The two boats containing the seven members of the recently formed vigilante patrol pushed off into the bay an hour before sunset. In the leading craft was Mackie, a powerful bull-like man who had borne a grudge against Klin for the last decade. Usually the two men ignored each other. Now, however, they were joined in a common cause.

Mackie's dark, bearded face had the same look of determination about it as had Klin's, only the former's lower lip denoted a weakness of character by the way it trembled during moments of uncertainty. And Mackie was unsure of himself even now as he took the helm, glanced at his two companions, and then across at the boat which was cruising parallel to his own. Why had Klin stayed behind? Did he know something which he had not disclosed to the others? Had the details of his encounter with the poachers on the previous night been a true one, or had Klin seen them and headed back to shore determined to put these other local fishermen in the firing line? Mackie wished that he had had the forethought to check Klin's boat for bullet holes before setting out. He would have felt a lot easier had he done so.

Darkness quickly followed the setting of the sun, and within a couple of hours the moon had risen, an orange orb turning to silver and casting its ethereal glow across the water. The two boats dropped anchor about five hundred yards apart, and the men settled down to wait. Now that they were out here, away from the heat and anger of the meeting at Klin's house, each one of them found himself praying that no poaching boats would show up, that nothing would happen, and that in the morning they would return with their pride and courage undaunted. Yet, they dared not disclose their individual feelings. Each had to put on a bold front.

They had not expected to see an enemy craft so soon. Hardly were the first cigarettes finished before they heard the engine of an approaching boat, and within a matter of ten minutes they saw it, chugging silently around a hidden coral reef. The poachers were certainly familiar with these waters, Mackie decided, and hoped that his two companions would not notice that his hand trembled silently as he pointed. The anchor was hauled up, and they began to drift with the current. Mackie looked round. The second boat was drifting with them, and unless the poachers increased speed or changed course a confrontation was inevitable.

Suddenly there was silence except for the gentle lapping of the water. The poaching boat had cut its engines. The fishermen saw men moving about on the deck, tiny figures silhouetted against a background of silvery scintillating water. A faint splash reached their ears. The net had been dropped. Whether or not they had spotted the silent approach of the two fishing boats, the Japanese had no intention of returning home empty handed.

Mackie gripped his rifle in damp hands. He heard the metallic click as one of the men behind him pushed the bolt on an ancient Mauser forward. The third man had a shotgun, an old 28-gauge which he seldom used due to the difficulty in obtaining ammunition. There was another rifle, a .22, and three shotguns in the other boat.

Mackie was surprised how quickly they had closed in on the trawler. The currents were stronger than he had anticipated. He found himself wishing that the poachers would start their engines and maybe trawl quickly out of range, or else spot the vigilantes, haul up the net, and make a quick getaway.

Neither happened. The larger boat remained stationary, its engines silent. Mackie felt decidedly more uneasy by the second. It was like a ghost ship, devoid of life. Where had the crew gone?

The vigilante boats were closer together now as they converged on the apex of the triangle, less than a hundred yards separating them from the poachers. The men were looking to Mackie for a decision, a signal. He fingered his rifle nervously. A shouted warning? A shot over their bows? He had about sixty seconds in which to decide what he was going to do.

Even as he deliberated the still night air of Barbecue Bay was shattered by the sound of gunfire. Flame stabbed from the deck of the Japanese ship as a dozen rifles crashed together, the first volley simultaneous, and then followed by a medley of reports according to how swiftly the prone men could squeeze the triggers of their automatic weapons.

Mackie staggered back as a slug cut through his breastbone, came out between his shoulder blades and embedded itself in the wooden cabin. His rising scream was checked by a second bullet which took him in the throat, severing the jugular vein so that he was spouting blood even as he slipped slowly to the deck. A third slug gored a bloody hole in his groin before he hit the slatted wood in the bottom of the boat.

Those who fish the waters around Hayman Island learn to react instinctively. Often it means the difference between life and death when a killer shark is hurtling in for the kill. Thus, although the ambush had caught them completely unawares, the fishermen were flinging themselves flat in their boats before the triggers were squeezed for a second time. Moonlight and a strong current are not conducive to good marksmanship, and possibly Mackie bad been as unfortunate as the man who had been dropped by Klin's shot on the previous night. Alternatively, he had been occupying a prominent elevated position from where his men would be able to see his signal clearly, and it was feasible that several of the poachers had aligned their sights on him for their first shot.

A pall of gun smoke drifted from the deck of the Japanese boat. The nine men looked to their captain who was surveying the scene through a pair of infrared binoculars. He shouted something in his native tongue, the snipers jabbered excitedly for a moment, then leapt to their feet. Heedless of the prospect of answering fire they went about their individual tasks. The engines were started, and they began to trawl. They did not consider the local fishermen a serious threat to their nocturnal activities.

The vigilantes lay watching as the poaching boat slowly disappeared from sight. Not a single shot had they fired between them. The question of pursuit was not even considered. The engine of the second boat was started a few minutes later, and it made its way alongside the one containing the dead body of Mackie.

‘That's what comes o' listenin' to Klin,’ one man muttered.

‘Aye,’ another agreed. ‘And he didn't come out with us. I thought it was funny the way he stayed behind.’

‘Just like he knew what was goin' to happen,’ a third one added.

They looked at one another across the yard or so of water between the two boats, and nodded slowly in agreement. They had always wondered how Klin had managed to afford the upkeep of a lodge in such close proximity to the Royal Hayman Hotel.

‘We'd better get back,’ a small lithe man, dressed in a dark T-shirt and jeans, said, looking down at the still form of Mackie. ‘All this crap about the Japs having equipment for locating tuna and crabs. I reckon they've been payin' for the information. That's why Klin spends so much of his time out here alone, and now he saw an easy way to get rid of some competition.’

An angry murmur of assent greeted his words.

‘Let's get back and find Klin, and ...’ the words were lost in the roar of the two engines. Both boats swung round, and set off back the way they had come, throttles full open.

A mile from the shore the leading boat swung to the left of a coral cay. It would have been a perilous route to take for any who did not know this stretch of water for there were strips of jagged coral below the surface capable of ripping the bottom off a boat. But, Brant, the small man, was confident of avoiding these, and by taking this passage the return trip would be easier against an ebbing tide. The man at the helm of the second boat sweated as he followed in the wake of the first, slowing his engine in order to give him time to stop if any mishap befell the leading craft. He endeavoured to follow exactly in the path of the other, taking no chances.

Brant grunted in surprise as something scraped the bottom of the boat. Their progress was lightly checked only for a second. He breathed a sigh of relief, but almost immediately the vessel shuddered violently, lurching to one side. Brant was thrown heavily to the deck, the other man landing on top of him.

The second boat cut its engine and the anchor was dropped immediately enabling it to stop within a few yards of the first.

‘Stupid bastard,’ the man at the helm stood up, shaking his fists violently. ‘You bloody fool, Brant. Only a madman would attempt this route at night. You ...’

His anger changed to horror. The boat in front was tipping on to its side, whilst at the same time being lifted clear of the water as though by some invisible crane. Screams came from the men inside it. Brant and his companion were clinging on to the deck rail, their legs kicking wildly as they sought a foothold in vain. Loose objects began spilling into the water. Something heavy disappeared with a loud splash leaving a crimson stain in its wake. The lifeless body of Mackie bobbed back up to the surface, but disappeared again as though sucked down by some giant whirlpool.

‘Look!’

The cry of terror was issued by all four men as something bobbed up to the surface once more. A human head, the bloody neck tendons trailing from it as proof that it had been torn forcibly from the body, the features visible for a brief second before the current took it. Even in death it seemed that Mackie was to be denied the dignity of an orthodox burial at sea.

The boat was in the water again now, capsized, the two men clinging desperately to it, yelling for a rope to be thrown. After a few seconds a length of coil snaked out, but now only Brant was visible. There was no sign of the second man.

Brant gave a scream that might have come from the bowels of hell itself, and even as his fingers were closing over the lifeline the others saw him disappear from view, dragged down with a force that no ocean current could have mustered.

‘What the fucking hell's going on?’ The fisherman who had thrown the line turned to the other three. ‘Get that engine started, and let's get the hell outta here. We must've run into a school o' sharks. Only a Great White could turn a boat over like that.’

Even as he spoke their own boat began to shudder. The man who was already reaching for the throttle was pitched sideways. His forehead hit the side, and he rolled over and lay still, temporarily dazed.

The stern was clear of the water. Men slid into the bows. One of them managed to grab a lifebelt, and in spite of the way the vessel was jerking and swaying he succeeded in sliding the improvised car tyre over his head.

‘Don't be a fool!’ a hand clutched at him, but he shook it off and tried to clamber over the side. A sudden tilt sent him hurtling into the water before he had plucked up the courage to make his jump.

He gasped as the water closed over him, and struck upwards. He surfaced, and tried to determine in which direction the coral cay lay. He saw the jagged outline less than twenty yards away, and struck out for it. He had barely completed two strokes of a panic-stricken crawl before something gripped him by both thighs, checking his progress immediately. The sudden pain was agonising, but it lasted for no more than a second. Then he was free of whatever had held him. He struck out again blindly.

Something was wrong, and he could not determine quite what it was. He felt numbed, and his leg thrusts did not appear to be propelling him along as they should have done. In fact, he appeared to be making no progress at all.

Something bobbed against him. He grabbed at it for support. A piece of driftwood, maybe. He clung to it with both hands, and kicked again with his legs. Once more his efforts appeared to be futile, and then he saw the object on which he was relying to help him gain the safety of the coral. A human leg. His own! The bloody limb still had his shabby plimsoll attached to the foot.

Mercifully he passed out before the razor-sharp incisors which had amputated both his legs found a hold on his neck and beheaded him.

The three survivors were clinging precariously to the bottom of the second overturned boat, the water beneath them whipped to a white foam, streaked here and there with crimson.

Then they saw the first of their attackers. Two pincers, larger than the anchor which they had thrown earlier, were bearing down on the upturned bows, lifting the stern clear of the water. The baleful eyes which regarded them understood their predicament. The giant crab knew only too well that they could not hold on for many more seconds, and that they would slide down to where it waited.

‘A crab! God, look at the size of it!’

‘No, it can't be!’

The three men fell as one, fear loosening their final hold, destroying any hope which they had of survival. They hit the creature with stunning force, bouncing off its shell into the coral depths where a forest of pincers slashed mercilessly in a frenzied carnage.

Chapter 3

Caroline du Brunner looked up in mild surprise as the door of her room opened and Klin entered. She was lying naked on the bed, having shed the bikini which she had worn throughout the day on the beach. Her skin had browned considerably, leaving two patches of delicate white where her scant two-piece had deprived her of a complete tan.

She closed the magazine which she had been browsing through and regarded her visitor steadily.

‘Well, well,’ she sniggered. ‘The lover hath returned in person. I didn't hear you knock.’

‘Because I didn't,’ Klin leaned back against the closed door, looking at her steadily, his gaze focused on the top of the dark V of lower hair. He was only too familiar with what lay between those closed thighs. Nevertheless, the lure was as great as ever. She, in turn, was staring at the bulge in the front of his shorts.

‘You've got a bloody nerve,’ she said. ‘Just because I let you have me the other night doesn't mean I'm going to open my legs for you whenever you feel like walking in here ... without knocking.’

‘It was the best screw you've ever had in your life,’ Klin laughed and seated himself on the bed beside her.

‘You're an arrogant bastard, too. As well as just plain bloody crude. Don't forget I've had three husbands.’

‘And if any one of them could screw as well as I do, you'd still be married.’

Now it was her turn to laugh, and the harshness which had been in her tone earlier was gone.

‘I like men who are primitive.’ Her hand strayed out to his hardness, encircled it lightly, and smoothed the material over it. For some seconds she studied its outline.

Klin was watching her thighs closely. They had parted slightly, no more than an inch or so, just sufficient for him to see part of the damp pinkness which lay beneath the dark hair. He waited for them to open still further, but they didn't. Caroline du Brunner wasn't going to make it quite so easy for him this time.

‘I like big things,’ she was still looking down at his erection, stroking it through the soiled cotton, but making no effort to slide her long slim fingers inside his shorts. ‘Big cars. Big houses. Big men. Which reminds me, there's a big feller booked in today. I was talking to him in the bar after dinner. He reminds me of you.’

‘So you've invited him up to your room.’

‘Not yet. I might just do that, though. He's all man. A big game hunter. Name of Logan. He likes big things, too. He's bagged the best of everything that's going, but he wants to get himself a shark. A Great White. He's looking for someone to take him out. I mentioned your name.’

‘I don't go for sharks.’ Klin's whole body was tensing as she continued to play with him. ‘I don't tangle with them unless they tangle with me.’

‘I'd like to come along,’ she glanced up at him. ‘I'd like to watch a duel between a guy like him and a real monster shark, and I wouldn't risk a dime on either. It'd be that close. He's that kind of man. Ruthless.’

‘So am I.’

‘Yeah, I guess you are, Klin.’

With a deft movement she had undone his waistband, and now her fingers were stroking throbbing naked flesh. He grunted, eased himself up, and roughly tugged his briefs down to knee-level. Even this did not disturb her finger rhythm, and she accelerated her movements, the lubricated flesh slipping back easily.

‘Fishermen, big game hunters,’ there was a mocking expression on her finely moulded features, ‘they come all the same to me.’

Suddenly realisation dawned on him. Anger mingled with his arousement. Those shapely thighs were pressed tightly together again in blatant denial of that which he wanted, and needed most, at that very moment.

‘You bitch!’ His rough brown hand caught the slim wrist and tore the masturbating fingers from him. Her left hand struck him across the face with the speed of a striking sea snake. Hardly had the slap echoed in the luxurious bedroom before he had secured a second wrist, this one even more angrily than the first. Then, in one perfectly co-ordinated movement, he had rolled on to the bed, pinioning her beneath him, crushing the breath from her with his own body. His knees forced her legs apart, whilst at the same time his thighs pushed their way inside hers. His erection stabbed at her, bringing a gasp from her soft red lips that could have been interpreted in a variety of ways.

‘Like I said, you're a bastard,’ she grunted, averting her head in an attempt to avoid his kisses. ‘Damn you, let me go, and get out of this room.’

‘Like hell.’

‘I could get you five years for this.’

‘Maybe you could back in Texas. But this is Hayman Island. This hotel is about the only civilised place in eighty miles of uncivilised coastline. You came all the way out here to get a man in your bed. Now you've got one, so what the hell are you complaining about?’

She groaned loudly as he found her entrance at last, and pushed deeply into her. In spite of her outward show of reluctance he noted with some satisfaction the way her vaginal muscles gripped him. He released her wrists. She made no attempt to hit him again. His hands found their way to her breasts, squeezing the soft unblemished flesh so that the nipples bulged out red and hard.

Klin began to push forward with his thighs, slowly and purposefully at first, then speeding up as his tension mounted. Her eyes were closed. She was breathing heavily, her whole body stiffening, jerking, convulsing inwardly. Her legs shot upwards bicycling, faster and faster, and her fingernails tore viciously at his shoulders and back. Seconds later she was going crazy with passion beneath him, pushing her thighs at him, grinding her pubic bone on his as she sought desperately for an even deeper penetration.

He felt his passion rising fast, too fast. It checked briefly, but he was aware that in his lust he had allowed it to go beyond recall so he gave way to his desires and thrust even harder. They were rolling over together as he exploded, and through blurred vision he saw her riding him like a bucking bronco, somehow managing to stay in the saddle, and loving every second of it. Finally, she collapsed spent on top of him, and only then did they begin to caress each other gently.

As the heat of passion left her, Caroline du Brunner began to sob uncontrollably. Her whole body shook with the spasms, and she buried her face against his chest, scraping her cheek along the matted hair.

‘You bastard,’ she moaned. ‘Oh, you bastard. Oh God, why did you have to do that?’

‘Because you wanted it, and I wanted it,’ he said. ‘And that's a good enough reason for any couple.’

‘Damn you, I wanted to forget you, Klin,’ she raised herself up, and looked at him through tear-filled eyes. ‘It always happens the same way. I vowed I'd never take another husband.’

‘I've never ever considered marrying,’ he replied, and was surprised to notice a slight tremor in his voice. ‘And, anyway, I've got nothing to offer a woman except a small lodge and a battered old tub that's full of bullet holes right now.’

‘Christ, you don't understand,’ she lay back beside him, biting her bottom lip and attempting to fight off another flood of tears.

They lay like that for most of the night, and only when the first grey streaks of light began to filter in through the windows did Klin extricate himself from her and reach for his shorts.

‘Do you really have to go?’ She lay propped on her elbows, watching him.

‘Yes,’ he stood there looking down on her, and there was a sadness in his expression which she had not noticed before. ‘I guess you're right in what you said, Caroline. Maybe you'd be better off with that big game hunter.’

Klin was down on the beach shortly before sunrise. He walked along the golden sand checking the boats, and was both surprised and concerned to note that neither of the vigilante vessels had returned.

He sat down on the sand and watched the first rays of sunlight sparkle on Barbecue Bay. There was not a single boat in sight. He knew then that something had gone drastically wrong.

Professor Clifford Davenport was aroused by the ringing of the telephone downstairs in his study shortly before 7 a.m. Carefully he eased himself out of bed, trying not to wake the dark-haired petite girl who slept by his side. But his efforts were in vain. Her eyelids flickered open, and she lifted her head.

‘Who can that be at this hour?’ she asked sleepily.

‘Well, there's only one way to find out,’ Cliff grinned, shrugged himself into a silk dressing gown, and started down the stairs.

Subconsciously he ran his fingers through his dark hair, and was aware that his hairline was receding even further lately even though he was still a few months off forty. His sharp aquiline features wore an expression of concern as he lifted the receiver. For almost four years now he had dreaded one particular phone call. It might never come. On the other hand, he was constantly haunted by a premonition that it would. It had happened a thousand times in his nightmares when he was being recalled because the monstrous crabs had returned to invade the Welsh beaches. This could be it. He offered up a prayer that it wasn't, but his hand trembled slightly, nevertheless.

‘Professor Clifford Davenport speaking.’

‘Sorry to fetch you out of bed, Clifford.’

Davenport tensed. He recognised the voice only too well. Grisedale, Ministry of Defence. There could only be one reason for this call. Already he knew that his worst fears were realised. The crabs had shown up again somewhere.

‘They've turned up again, have they?’ Davenport's voice was loaded with all the tension that had been building up inside him these last four years. It was like waiting for a phone call from a hospital to tell you that a close relative was dead, but when that call came you had to ask the question before they broke the news. In a way it softened the blow.

‘There's been a sighting,’ Grisedale went on. ‘But it's not been confirmed. Hayman Island off the Queensland coast.’

‘How reliable is your information?’

‘The Australian government telephoned me about an hour ago. The news came from a reporter staying on the island. There's a local fisherman there, a fellow by the name of Klin. He saw the crab on a coral cay. As big as a horse. The authorities wanted me to contact you. We can't take any chances. You know what happened last time.’

‘The fellow may have been drinking,’ Cliff Davenport stammered, desperately trying to find a way of disbelieving that the giant crabs had shown up again. ‘For months after the “Battle of Barmouth” we were getting reports of sightings. Every one was a false alarm. Folks went crab crazy.’

‘The story has a ring of truth to it,’ Grisedale was unmoved. ‘Anyway, I'd like you to go out there and check. I'm booking your reservations now. At the very least you'll get a free holiday on a millionaires' paradise. Care to take Pat along? All expenses paid, of course.’

‘No,’ the professor snapped. ‘Not at any price, Grisedale. If those hellish fiends are rising from the deep again I don't want her anywhere near them.’

‘Alright.’ There was a note of relief in the other's voice, almost as though he had half expected Davenport to refuse to investigate. ‘I'll fix your bookings and ring you back in about an hour.’

Clifford Davenport's face was grim as he replaced the receiver. The walls of his West Hampstead study were covered with maps and detailed charts of the oceans of the world. On several of them were red crosses marked with a ballpoint pen by himself. These denoted the most likely places where the monstrous crustaceans might show themselves again.

He looked closely at the map of the Pacific. He had marked Heron Island in the Curtis Channel. He hadn't been far out. A few hundred miles was of no consequence where these monsters were concerned.

‘Cliff.’

Davenport whirled round. He had not heard his wife come into the room. She stood there in the doorway, a housecoat thrown around her which barely covered her small shapely figure. There was an expression of anxiety on her face, her wide eyes asking the question to which she already knew the answer.

Cliff nodded, dropping his eyes to the floor to avoid meeting hers.

‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘They're back. At least, a fisherman off the Queensland coast has reported seeing one. That was Grisedale. He wants me to go out there. He's fixing the bookings now.’

‘I'd like to come with you,’ she said, and he noticed that she was trembling. Her housecoat had fallen open and he had a full view of her body, the small firm breasts, and the whiteness of the insides of her thighs. He almost relented, but then he remembered that time when they had lain and watched helplessly as the crabs had mutilated and devoured Bartholomew the beachcomber. He would never forget the expression on her face. Her mind had almost snapped. Mercifully it hadn't. He wasn't going to risk it again.

‘The Ministry are only booking one seat on the flight,’ he muttered. ‘And, anyway, I should be back within a week. More than likely there's nothing in it. Some drunken fisherman has mistaken a patch of shadow in the moonlight ...’

‘You know that's not true!’ She stepped forward and slipped her hand into his. Her eyes were misty but she smiled bravely. ‘The crabs are back. We both knew it would happen sometime. Don't worry, Cliff. I know you don't want me along because I'd be in the way. But for God's sake, darling, don't get too close to them.’

He lowered his head until their lips met, lightly at first, then crushed together in fierce passion.

‘Damn the crabs,’ his voice was husky when they disengaged. We'll have to put paid to 'em once and for all, Pat, if they're going to keep dragging me away from you like this. Still, we do owe 'em something. If it hadn't been for them we would never have met in the first place, now would we?’

They both laughed, and then went upstairs to make love.

Klin remained on the beach until midday, but by that time there was still no sign of the missing vigilante boats. Finally he stood up, scanned the bay yet again with his binoculars, and began to retrace his steps back in the direction of the lodges which nestled amongst the swaying palms.

He walked on past his own house for several hundred yards, keeping parallel with the beach until he came in sight of a squat one-storeyed whitewashed building set back from the others. A wooden board on the half-open door had the words SHARK PATROL emblazoned across it in bold red lettering.

Klin entered. The reception office was sparsely furnished; a table and chair, a telephone, filing cabinets and a metal waste bin overflowing with empty beer cans.

Almost immediately, Shannon came through from the adjoining room. There was a scowl on his face, and a two-day growth of stubble on his square chin.

‘You oughta be fined, Klin,’ he growled, ‘for wastin' the patrol's time. I got two helicopters out right now searchin' for these vigilantes o' yours. I was knocked up before seven o'clock by a bunch o' wives complaining that their husbands hadn't returned home. I told 'em to go and see you, but they said they'd come straight from your place and there was nobody at home.’

‘I was out early,’ Klin snapped. ‘The boats haven't come back and -’

He was interrupted by the crackling of the radio transmitter from the back room. Shannon disappeared through the doorway, and Klin listened to the officer's voice, terse, and definitely worried. A couple of minutes later the shark patrol chief re-joined him.

‘My boys have found the boats,’ he snapped. ‘Capsized and driftin' off the bay. No sign of any survivors.’

‘Those fucking Japs!’ Klin lowered himself into the nearest chair. ‘Now we really got to do somethin' about 'em, Shannon.’

‘Who says it was poachers?’

‘Gotta be. Boats don't overturn on their own. Certainly not two of 'em together.’

‘Still doesn't mean it was poachers. They might shoot up boats but they'd have one helluva job to capsize 'em. No point, anyway.’

‘You've got something there.’ Klin tugged pensively at his black beard. ‘Well, there's only one creature I know capable of tipping a couple of boats over. A Great White.’

‘Ain't none in the area. We patrol daily from here to Mackay and Prosperine, and back round all the islands, as you well know. Last saw a Great White about six weeks ago, and he was headin' north.’

‘Unless …’ Klin's eyes narrowed. The vision of that huge nightmarish shape sliding from the coral cay came back to him. A creature bigger than a horse, a hundred times stronger than a Great White shark ...

‘Unless what?’ Shannon asked.

Klin was silent for a moment, deliberating whether or not to confide in Shannon. Corder knew, his paper knew, the Australian government knew. Soon everybody would know.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘You're going to get this officially before very long, but there's a creature out there that's more dangerous than anything which has ever walked the ocean bed.’

‘Oh, shit, Klin!’ Shannon banged his fist on the desk impatiently. ‘Like I've already said, you're wastin' patrol time. We got more important matters to attend to than ...’

‘Shut up!’ Klin snapped, and his features hardened. ‘Did you ever hear about some giant crabs that came ashore on a Welsh coast and...’

‘Ha, ha, bloody ha,’ Shannon guffawed. ‘I heard about some monster in Loch Ness that a load o' cranks are try in' to prove exists.’

‘Well, these crabs exist.’ Klin was becoming angry. ‘And I know, because I saw one on a cay two nights ago.’

‘You're fuckin' crazy.’

‘Am I? Well Corder phoned his paper and -’

‘Corder! A couple of ants cross the road and we're being invaded by soldier ants. He's the biggest bullshitter there is.’

The radio crackled again, and Shannon left the room to answer it.

‘What!’ Shannon's voice had a note of incredulity in it. ‘Where? You're sure? Well, one of you follow 'em, the other get the hell back here.’

He came back into the office.

‘I owe you an apology, Klin,’ he said. ‘Unless of course Riordan and Johnson have gone loopy, too. These crabs you were talking about. They've spotted a bunch of them off the end of the bay, moving out to sea. They reckon there's no doubt that they're crabs, as big as bleedin' elephants, they say. One 'copter is goin' to follow, the other's coming back. Then I reckon you and me'll go and take a looksee for ourselves.’

Klin was silent It was one thing to prove a point, but it was equally disconcerting to learn that his worst fears were confirmed. There was no doubt whatsoever in his mind now about how the men in the boats had perished. Shannon opened two cans of beer and pushed one across to Klin.

‘The helicopter'll be about fifteen minutes,’ he said. He couldn't think of anything else to say at that moment.

Riordan landed on the compound behind the building twelve minutes later. He had pushed the helicopter to its utmost, and as Klin and Shannon embarked they noticed that the pilot's face was deathly white. The hands which rested on the controls shook visibly.

‘Christ, you should've seen 'em,’ he muttered.

‘That's just what we want to do,’ Shannon snarled. ‘And we ain't gonna do that by sitting here listening to you babbling, Riordan.’

The helicopter took off immediately, rising to clear the palms and the crowded beach, then dropping to about fifty feet once it was over the water. Klin looked down. He had flown over the bay scores of times on those occasions when he had worked with the patrol, but the sheer magnificence of the depths below never ceased to enthral him. It was as though the sea itself had evaporated and they were flying over an arid desert, coral plains and canyons, cacti, and multi-coloured birds which looked like fishes.

None of them spoke. They just stared downwards, afraid of what they might see.

Shannon glanced at his watch, and his forehead wrinkled into a frown. He tapped Riordan on the shoulder.

‘We've been flyin' twenty minutes,’ he yelled above the roar of the engine. ‘Where the hell's Johnson got to?’

‘We're on course,’ the pilot called back without turning his head.

‘Well, call him up on the radio,’ Shannon ordered. ‘Crabs don't move that fast. Not even elephant-sized ones.’

Riordan nodded, and began fiddling with the controls of his radio. After several attempts he shook his head and turned to the others. His cheeks were bloodless, and his tongue travelled nervously over dry lips.

‘Not a bleep,’ he said. ‘His radio must've packed up.’

Klin and Shannon looked at each other, then the latter spoke to the pilot again. ‘He can't have come this far. Circle round. Maybe we'll pick him up that way.’

Riordan went into a wide sweep, gaining height and passing over a group of small coral islands. Shannon and Klin had their eyes fixed on the ocean bed. Only where it shelved and the water was deep were they unable to see the floor. There was no sign of any large crabs. Nor of the other helicopter.

‘Crazy,’ Shannon muttered. ‘It gets crazier by the hour. I guess we'd better get back to base. This is the last place we want to run out of fuel.’

They landed, and got out in silence. Shannon looked at his watch again. They had been flying for nearly an hour.

‘Fill her up and stand by,’ he told the pilot. ‘We may have to go out again.’

When they entered the office he said to Klin, ‘OK, for argument's sake, I'll accept that these crabs exist. But, big or small, crabs can't fly. Maybe we've got flying sea serpents as well that feed on helicopters.’

‘Hardly,’ Klin replied. ‘But a thousand and one things could have gone wrong. You know as well as I do, Shannon, that if you get engine trouble out there you're booked for shark food. And if there are crabs about then your chances of survival are even slimmer.’

At that moment they heard the radio again, and this time Klin followed his companion through to the instrument.

The call was from patrol headquarters, Townsville. Shannon listened for almost five minutes.

At last he spoke. ‘We're standing by, right now. One of our 'copters has gone missing, though.’

‘Well?’ Klin asked when the radio was silent.

‘For ten years,’ Shannon sighed, ‘all I've had to worry about is sharks. We look for 'em, report their positions and directions, and radio warnings. Then, overnight, creatures which have no right to exist in this world turn up in my area. There have been two separate sightings by patrols this morning. One off Whitsunday Island, the other two miles east of Lindeman Island. Not to mention Hayman Island. Already two fishing boats, seven men, one helicopter and a pilot are listed amongst the casualties. The government are taking immediate emergency measures and sending in destroyers and submarines. And me, I gotta fly round all day looking for oversize crabs. When I was a kid I always wanted to be a kangaroo hunter. My dad wouldn't have any of it. “Boy”, he used to say, “what you gotta have in this life is security. A safe job with regular pay. You won't find better than the Shark Patrol”. Reckon my old man bad it in for sharks. He lost a leg to one on Bondi Beach.’

‘I'll be at the hotel if you want me,’ Klin stood up and moved towards the door.

As he passed dose to the beach he noticed a group of men preparing to push out to sea in a fishing boat. He recognised several of them. They had volunteered for his vigilante patrols the previous night. Now they were going out to search for their missing comrades. He wanted to stop them, but he knew only too well that they would refuse to listen to him. He walked on.

He entered the hotel and took the elevator up to Corder's room.

Chapter 4

The captain of the Japanese trawler was well pleased with his night's work. They had found a large colony of mud crabs and had trawled through them twice with excellent results. He ordered the man at the helm to turn the boat around and go through them a third time. It would only take another hour or so, and even if the catch was sparse it would be an added bonus.

The net was dropped, and the engines were started again. The captain went below deck to study the panel of instruments which controlled both tuna and crab line assemblies. The intricacies of this sophisticated equipment never ceased to amaze him.

As well as mud crabs there were king prawns, up to twelve inches long, and tuna for the taking. The trawl was in no way selective. When several trawlers worked together, the assembly line sometimes exceeded fifty-miles in length, the surface line strung with plastic floats, anchored at regular intervals, and also hooked lines suspended every sixty feet. This combination allowed very few of the quarry to escape. A series of transistorised radio beacons reported underwater activity to the mother vessel, relaying its bleeping signal to the master panel.

The captain of the poaching boat murmured his satisfaction as he listened to these bleeping signals coming from the set. It was much more gratifying to work his own boat than to form part of a fleet.

The panel continued to bleep as the heavy net trawled slowly along the ocean bed. There were still crabs down there, and mostly they would be Queensland mud crabs. He lit a cheroot and sat down on a chair in front of the set. He did not anticipate any trouble from the locals tonight. They had surely learnt their lesson by now. The authorities would intervene no further than submitting yet more complaints to his government in Tokyo. Further legislation would be announced, but it would not be enforced. Japan did not wish to prohibit this lucrative, source of income. Australia feared an international incident. The illegal fishing would continue.

Half an hour later he heard the anchor being dropped and the net being hauled up. He stubbed out the butt of his cheroot and went back up on deck.

The trawl was heavy. The catch had been much larger than he had dared to hope for. With a bland smile he stood watching, selecting another cheroot from the case in his pocket, and lighting it carefully. His men worked feverishly, anxious to unload the final catch and be away. In spite of their obvious supremacy in these waters they did not relish the prospect of another gun battle. A man had died two nights ago. He had been unlucky, killed by a fluke shot, but the fact remained that it could have happened to any one of them.

Suddenly a shout went up from the men handling the heavy net. The captain ran forward.

‘What is it?’ he snapped.

The poachers were backing away from a heap of crabs which they had just tipped out on to the deck.

‘Look!’ one of them jabbered. ‘That one. Never have we caught one of such size!’

The captain stared at the crab in question as it squatted in a circle of light cast by an oil lamp. He gasped audibly. The creature was fully four feet across with pincers the size of heavy-duty spanners. It met his gaze, and in the tiny eyes there was no hint of fear, but something else. Contempt.

‘A monster,’ the captain muttered. ‘A prize, indeed. It will fetch ten times the price of an ordinary crab.’

The creature hissed menacingly almost as though it understood his words. A pincer was waved in the air.

Click, Click, Clickety-click.

The devil himself has come up from the depths,’ one of the poachers announced stepping back hastily.

‘Fool!’ the captain snapped angrily. ‘It is but a superb specimen.’

But the large crab was advancing, shambling slowly over its smaller relatives as though heedless of their presence.

Click. Click. Clickety-click.

Its eyes were fixed unwaveringly on the captain as though it had already identified him as the instigator of its present predicament. It did not hurry, and every movement denoted intelligence far above that of the average crustacean. It was no prisoner. It had arrived on board accidentally yet it obviously intended to inflict some punishment upon those who had dared to haul it up from the deep.

Men were scattering. The captain stood his ground, easing a heavy .45 automatic pistol out of his pocket. He could not afford to lose face in front of his men. There were those who would seize upon his weakness afterwards and usurp his authority.

The crab was less than two yards from him. He held the pistol with his right hand and steadied it with his left. For one brief second he savoured the trigger pressure, aiming directly between those baleful glowing eyes. Not even an overgrown crab could survive a .45 slug at point-blank range, he decided, and squeezed the trigger.

The report was deafening, the weapon bucking in his grip. A frenzy seized him. He fired again. And again. And only when the magazine was empty did he pause to survey the results of his panic-stricken burst of gunfire.

The crab still lived. It had neither advanced nor retreated, but merely squatted there as though defying him to reload and shoot again.

‘No!’ he yelled, disbelief and fear in his voice. ‘It is impossible. A rifle, quickly, one of you.’

But it was as though the creature understood his request, and with that same monotonous menacing clicking noise it began to ease itself forward. It was now barely a yard from him, and it seemed not even to notice the empty pistol which crashed into its face and skidded on across the deck.

‘A rifle.’ the captain demanded yet again, and then screamed as one of those pincers moved with unbelievable speed, and closed over his wrist. The watchers were frozen into terrified immobility. They heard the crunch of severed bone, followed by the dull plop of a falling bloody human hand. Their captain began shrieking in abject terror as he was momentarily freed by the amputation, and staggered back, blood spurting from his wrist. His feet caught against a coil of rope and he fell, landing on his side, his head only inches away from the advancing clicking nippers, the foremost one dripping with blood, splattering some of it over him. He could smell the beast's fetid breath.

Suddenly the men seemed to come out of their trance, a hypnotism brought on by fear at the very existence of such a creature. They ran in search of rifles. One found an axe, and wielding it above his head he brought it down with all his force on the broad shell of the captain's attacker. The blade merely bounced back, and the vibration caused him to lose his grip on the handle. He heard it go spinning away somewhere.

Two of the Japanese returned with rifles, but as quickly as they raised them to their shoulders they lowered them again. The crab was astride the captain, its legs holding him firmly, whilst the pincers, almost delicately, explored his body in search of another limb to amputate.

Helplessly the crew watched, some of them being sick with revulsion. It reminded them of a spider finding a fly caught in its web, and instead of devouring it immediately preferring to torture its victim by ripping off a leg at a time.

The severed flailing wrist still spouted blood, a bright red fountain which sprayed over the crab, rendering it an even more horrific spectacle. Almost effortlessly the pincer found the shoulder joint and with a loud crunch removed the whole arm. Then, seconds later, the captain's other arm suffered an identical fate.

He was screaming and sobbing hysterically, but unconsciousness cruelly eluded him. Blood pumped and ran across the deck, but still the rifles remained silent. The mutilated man's fate was inevitable, yet his colleagues held their fire, staring with bulging eyes, fearful of transferring the monster's wrath upon themselves.

The crab manoeuvred its bloody pincers with remarkable ease, securing a dual leg grip. The nearest poacher caught a glimpse of its face, and promptly covered his eyes with his hands. It was as though the crustacean, was grinning evilly to itself, aware of its own invincibility.

It moved slightly, no more than a yard, dragging its victim with it, leaving in its wake human arms and legs, the nerves of which still twitched and tremored.

The onlookers were spared the sight of their captain's face. They knew not whether he was alive or dead. Neither did they care. An aura of evil emanated from the crab, a force that was far in excess of its physical atrocities. It was a reincarnation of the Ancient Mariner, compelling an audience. The captain's head rolled the length of the deck but they did not follow its progress. Not one of them turned to look when it came to an abrupt halt with a sickening thud.

But the giant crab's mutilations did not end with the severing of legs, arms and head. The pincers were cutting deep into the abdomen as it disembowelled the remnants of its victim, working faster now with an obvious zest.

Suddenly, above the squelching of entrails a rifle shot rang out. It had the effect of breaking the bizarre spell which had rooted the audience to the deck. Heads turned, but the crab did not even glance up as it began greedily stuffing a morass of human intestines into its open mouth. Fresh screaming broke out from the crew. The man who had fired let off another shot, then continued shooting until his magazine was empty. More shots followed from the second armed man, but not one of the bullets was directed at the giant crab. Its presence was almost forgotten for behind them, advancing from the stern, where they had obviously climbed up the trawl ropes out of the ocean bed, several more crabs were advancing, all of them four times the size of the first one!

Click - click - click - clickety - click. The advance was rapid. There was nothing slow or cumbersome about the attackers. Bullets ricocheted off them. The men with the rifles were the first to fall, and without waiting to determine the fate of their comrades the remainder of the crew gave way to panic. They ran blindly, but now there appeared to be crabs everywhere.

Two poachers dived overboard. Both were strong swimmers, but neither surfaced from their initial leap into the water. Gradually the screaming on board died down. The only sounds to be heard were a steady crunching and eager slurping.

Shortly after dawn the following morning the drifting trawler was found by an Australian destroyer entering Barbecue Bay. The deck of the poaching boat was stained with human blood which had seeped into the woodwork and dried a dull brown, but of the crew there was no sign, except for one torn index finger which was jammed securely in the crushed trigger guard of a smashed rifle.

‘Ain't a creature alive that can stand up to a double-barrelled .500 Express,’ Harvey Logan told Caroline du Brunner, and added ‘in the right hands, of course.’

She sized him up with a pair of hazel eyes that knew exactly what to look for in a man. A deeply tanned complexion that had originally come from the veldt, but had been cultivated by an infrared lamp in the bedrooms of various hotels throughout the world. Barbecue Beach would bring it up to perfection before he moved on again. His thick golden hair was wavy. She suspected the occasional perm. The moustache and carefully groomed goatee beard added a touch of sophistication to the white hunter image which he was obviously intent on creating wherever he went.

But the powerful body had nothing artificial about it, the wide shoulders and biceps bulging inside the drill shirt. She glanced down at his thighs and legs hidden by the white cotton trousers, idly looking for the first signs of a protrusion behind the zip. There was none. But there was plenty of time yet. The majority of her affairs had begun in the lounge bars of expensive hotels. She had learned by experience to play it slowly to begin with. Tonight she was the hunter, and Logan was the hunted.

The public rooms of the hotel were large and lavish. The lounge in which Caroline du Brunner and Harvey Logan sat had the dance floor and orchestra stand on one side, whilst the opposite wall almost totally comprised a large window which looked out across the bay. The adjoining residential lounge was more comfortably and quietly furnished. However, Caroline preferred the glamour of the larger room. She eased forward so that her companion was afforded virtually an unrestricted view down the low neckline of her lime-green evening dress.

‘This is the first time in the whole of the six weeks I've been staying here that I've seen the bay practically deserted.’ She gestured towards the expanse of blue water with the evening sun glinting on it. ‘No surfers, swimmers, waterskiers, and only a handful of fishing boats. There's hardly anybody on the beach, either.’

‘Because everybody's scared of these damned crabs,’ Logan laughed, and took another swallow of vodka and lime. ‘If you ask me, it's a hoax. Some propaganda started by another coastal resort hundreds of miles away to lure the tourist trade from Hayman.’

‘You don't believe the story, then?’

‘Like hell. Show me a crab and I'll believe it. Until then I'll concentrate on getting me a Great White. Damn it, isn't there anybody on Hayman who'll take me out after one?’

‘Klin's the best man,’ she said.

‘And he's as scared as the rest of these islanders.’

‘No.’ Her cheeks flushed slightly, and she toyed with the stem of her glass. ‘He's not scared. Just stubborn. If he takes a dislike to anybody he wouldn't take 'em out for a million bucks.’

‘Wal, he's sure taken a dislike to me,’ Logan grinned. ‘He's the one who started all this. Told him so myself. Arrogant bastard he is. Two fishing boats capsize, and a helicopter gets engine trouble and nosedives into the sea, and he invents a cock and bull yarn that virtually empties the beaches around here.’

‘You see that man,’ she said, lowering her voice and nodding to where an aquiline-featured man sat at a table with Corder several yards away on their left. ‘Well, he's the guy who is supposed to know more about these giant crabs than anybody else alive. He came in by helicopter from Mackay this afternoon. He's Professor Clifford Davenport. From London. He's conducting an enquiry on behalf of the British and Australian governments.’

‘Like I said.’ Logan drained his drink and looked around the crowded room for a waitress. ‘If there are such things then I'm not moving from here until I've bagged myself a pair of pincers. I once dropped a water buffalo at two hundred yards with the Express, and they come a lot tougher than any crabs.’

‘Come on up to my room for a drink,’ she interrupted casually, expertly disguising the slight nervousness which had been building up inside her for the past half hour. She had never been able to overcome the tension attached to an initial encounter.

‘OK.’ He stood up, scraping his chair back. ‘Lead on.’

She released her pent-up breath silently as she turned away from him and began to thread her way between tables of after- dinner drinkers. Harvey Logan was still the hunted, and she was closing in fast for the kill.

Up in her room they sat in easy chairs overlooking Barbecue Bay. Caroline du Brunner had the best room in the hotel, and it was costing her nearly a thousand dollars a week. And she did not intend leaving for a while yet. And not just because of the giant crabs.

Again she looked for signs of an erection inside his trousers, but there was none. She was becoming annoyed. It usually did not take this long.

It was as she brought the third round of vodkas from the cocktail cabinet that she perched herself on his knee. She tried to make the move seem as casual as possible, the sort of thing that any woman might do after five or six double vodkas. She placed the drinks on the table beside her. They were only an encumbrance.

She slid an arm around his neck and began to stroke his goatee with her free hand, allowing her bosom to rest against his chest, hoping that he would notice the sharpness of her aroused nipples.

‘I wish you'd showed up a few weeks ago, Harvey,’ she murmured as she brushed his lips with her own. ‘I've been getting awfully lonely lately. There don't seem to be many real men about these days.’

His eyes widened. He gave her the impression of a roebuck that has caught the scent of a stalking lioness. Momentary fear. Then it was gone, and he was responding to her kisses.

It took her about ten seconds to become totally disillusioned. His pouted lips pushed at her, but when she opened her mouth in anticipation of a thrusting tongue, nothing happened. She tried to push her own tongue between his thick lips but his row of even white teeth presented an impassable barrier. In the end she had to be content with being showered with sloppy juvenile love kisses.

She let a hand drop to the front of his trousers, brushing the zip swiftly, almost as though it might have been an accidental touch brought about by a change of position on her part. There was no hardness there. She cursed inwardly but controlled her outward feelings, reminding herself that the night was very young yet.

It was some time before she guided one of his large hands up on to her breasts. Her zip was already partially undone. He ignored it, and began to squeeze her soft mounds of flesh through the flimsy material. His hand was strong. Too strong, and totally devoid of the art of gentle caressing. Once she only just managed to check an involuntary cry of pain.

In the end she slid the zip down for him, loosened her bra, and presented him with a pair of naked breasts. She fared little better as he began to rub his palms on her erect nipples, and seemed totally ignorant of the means by which any of the female erogenous zones could be stimulated.

Thus it was a slight consolation to her, at a much later stage, when she noticed a stirring in his lower regions. She hardly dared feel at the bulge which was certainly making its presence felt against her body, but in the end she could contain herself no longer.

Slowly she eased Harvey Logan's trouser zip down, and furtively located the pulsing length of solid flesh inside, whilst at the same time endeavouring to stir him to some small degree of lustfulness by forcing her tongue into his mouth.

By now his body was tense, and he was pushing with his thighs, trying to generate friction against her hand as she clasped him. She closed her eyes and tried to make her long sigh sound like one of escalating passion rather than total frustration.

‘Take me to bed, Harvey,’ she pleaded. ‘Oh, God, take me!’

The big game hunter was eager for her now, and she noted the way his eyes ran appraisingly over her as she stepped out of her dress, and how his own fingers trembled as he fumbled to get out of his clothes.

She threw herself on to the bed, legs lewdly spread, head back, eyes closed, imagining that the man about to lie on top of her was tall and lithe, with an unkempt mane of jet blade hair.

Her fantasy ended when he lowered himself on top of heir, though. She stretched her thighs even wider until she was almost doing the splits, attempting to make it easy for him. She gasped as she felt him push at her. He was too high up, and already thrusting as though trying to bore a passage to satisfy his lust.

She slid a hand between their pressed bodies in an attempt to assist him. It was at that moment that Harvey Logan began to jerk and stiffen, thrusting himself forcefully out of her grasp, and missing his intended target again.

Caroline du Brunner groaned loudly as she felt his orgasm and resigned herself to failure.

They lay side by side, looking at each other. There was disappointment in her expression, embarrassment in his.

‘Never mind,’ she attempted to salvage something from the encounter, ‘we can try again in a bit.’

He shook his head, sat up, and reached for his clothes. She lay and watched him dress, and only when he turned towards the door did she speak.

‘Go bag one of those giant crabs for me, Harvey,’ she said.

He slammed the door angrily behind him as he left, and even before his footsteps had faded down the corridor Caroline du Brunner's fingers were taking over from where Harvey Logan had left off.

She fantasised again, the same tall wild-looking man in tattered khaki shorts and long black hair.

Corder was quietly studying Professor Clifford Davenport across the table as they ate. He had been surprised when he actually met the man who was supposedly the world's leading authority on crustaceans. He had imagined an older man, more studious looking. Instead, the fellow who was seated opposite to him was alert, conversant with most topics, and swore almost as fluently as he did himself. He noticed, with amusement, the professor's eyes following Caroline du Brunner and Harvey Logan as they passed by on their way to the elevator.

‘That's Caroline du Brunner,’ Davenport muttered when the pair were out of earshot.

‘Know her?’ the reporter raised his eyebrows.

‘Who doesn't? Her picture's in the paper every time she divorces a husband, and again when she finds a new one. What's she doing here?’

‘Screwing mainly. I'd lay a month's pay that she's about to find out how good Harvey Logan is at shooting, and I don't mean with his gun.’

‘And what's he doing here? There's nothing in the way of big game on Hayman Island.’

‘He's currently engaged in trying to bribe somebody to take him on a Great White shark hunt. There are two factors against that. One there ain't any Great White's around at present. Two, nobody'll take him on. I guess in the end he'll settle for trying to get a giant crab.’

‘It'll take more than him and any of his big game armoury to stop the crabs,’ Davenport said. ‘We couldn't hold 'em with Churchill tanks in Barmouth.’

They looked up as a shadow fell across their table.

‘Sorry I'm late,’ Klin pulled out a chair, and seated himself on it. ‘Been out with the helicopters.’

‘Anything doing?’ Davenport looked at the man whom he had been instructed by Grisedale to contact, and whom, it appeared, dispensed with introductions.

‘The crabs are about,’ Klin helped himself to a drink. ‘A destroyer found a Jap poaching trawl this morning. The fuckers had climbed up the trawl ropes and boarded it. Out of a whole crew all that was left was one severed finger!’

‘Then it's the crabs all right,’ Cliff Davenport nodded gravely. ‘And they haven't altered their carnivorous habits one little bit. It isn't just destroying them that's the problem. First, we've got to find them. It was difficult enough in the Cardigan Bay, but on the Great Barrier Reef they could be anywhere inside eighty thousand square miles of ocean!’

Chapter 5

Clifford Davenport poured himself another drink, and looked at Klin and Corder.

‘Maybe I'd better fill you in on the habits of these killer crabs first,’ he said. ‘It's as well that you know what we're up against. I had a conference with the big chiefs of the Australian navy yesterday. The destroyers and submarines are briefed, but they are not always able to go in where the action is. That could well be our pigeon ... once we find 'em.’

‘So long as you don't get spraying Barbecue Bay with paraquat,’ Klin grunted.

‘Don't worry,’ Davenport laughed. ‘There's no fear of that. You forget one thing, when we paraquated the Barmouth horrors we did it whilst they were ashore. I think we'll probably have to resort to other means here, but at the moment I've no ideas and would welcome any suggestions. However, we believe that they may have come about as the direct result of an undersea nuclear explosion. I say “believe” because we've no actual proof, and there may be a totally different explanation. Anyway, that doesn't alter the fact that they're crawling around the ocean bed, and we've got to get rid of 'em.’

‘I think the nearest natural equivalent to this monster is the Reef Swimming crab which is to be found off Heron Island. It could well be that these horrors are this same species grown to astounding proportions. We don't know. Let us, thought look at the Reef crab. It is very aggressive, and at the approach of humans it advances menacingly with raised pincers. However, after it gives a nip with these it discards 'em, and makes its getaway. Our monsters don't do that. They rip humans to pieces, eat 'em, then look around for a second helping. Thus, if they have originated from the Reef Swimming crab then their nature has taken on a decidedly sadistic side to it.’

‘As you know, crabs are mostly active during the period when there is a full moon. This is when they spawn, the males carrying the females on their backs, the latter ejecting her eggs on an ebbing tide so that they are carried out to sea.’

‘We are just past the full moon now. The crabs have been active in this area, but I rather think that things will go quiet for a bit except for the odd one that decides to go on the hunt for humans.’

‘I think that my first step is to take a look at the ocean bed around Hayman Island and see if there are any signs of them around these islands.’

‘And you want someone to take you down?’ Klin smiled wanly.

‘That's the general idea,’ the Professor replied. ‘Don't worry, I've been diving before, and I'm fully aware of the dangers of sharks and sea snakes. I know the risks, but we shan't locate the crabs without taking any.’

‘When do you want to start?’ Klin asked.

‘Tomorrow morning. I'll arrange for a destroyer to cover us, just in case.’

The tall man nodded.

‘I'd like to come along, too,’ Corder said. ‘I'll stop on the boat, though.’

They both looked at him, and Davenport smiled.

‘I guess there's no harm in that,’ he pushed back his chair. ‘Right now, though, I've an awful lot of sleep to catch up on. See you both at seven in the morning for a pre-breakfast dip.’

‘That's where I saw the crab.’ Klin slowed the boat and pointed to the coral cay a hundred yards or so on their right.

‘And I guess that's as good a place as any to start.’ Clifford Davenport was clad in a black quarter-inch-thick wet suit, the visor pushed up on to his forehead. Klin was dressed in an identical suit only red in colour. Corder sat in the stern, wearing a T-shirt and shorts. He had no wish to accompany them below water although he would not have admitted as much.

Klin cut the engine and dropped the anchor. A destroyer floated only a quarter of a mile or so away from them at the mouth of Barbecue Bay.

‘Keep close to me,’ Klin said to Davenport. ‘These are snake waters, one of the reasons why there are seldom any sharks just hereabouts. By the way, no antivenin exists for a lot of sea snake bites.’

Davenport shuddered. Crabs he accepted and understood. Ever since boyhood he had had a fear of snakes. Underwater species seemed doubly terrifying. He tried not to think about them.

They checked their oxygen cylinders and Klin went first, Davenport lowering himself into the deep blue water with a certain amount of reluctance. Even from the boat he could see the ocean bed. In many ways it seemed a waste of time and energy going down there, but the professor knew only too well that anything they might find would be in the depths where the coral shelved, or in underwater caves. He dived, keeping his eyes on Klin the whole time. He noted with mixed feelings the metal snake stick which the fisherman clutched in his right hand. A means of defence against a reptilian attack, certainly, but it was also a stark reminder of the perils which abounded in these waters.

They reached the ocean bed within a matter of seconds, and then they were swimming a few feet above it, eyes scanning the coral for niches and caves.

Without warning the sea bed shelved and they found themselves in the depths, the water taking on a deeper blue and restricting their vision. Davenport experienced a sense of weightlessness, reminding him of the occasions when he had tried his hand at skydiving, seemingly freed from the force of gravity and soaring, plunging, like a bird in the air. It was exhilarating. The last time he had been below water was when he had searched the Welsh coast, four years ago; his quest the same then as it was now. Visions of that huge underwater cave came back to him. He had found the crabs that time, all right. Out here on the Great Barrier Reef, though, it seemed a thousand times more terrifying. All the same, he was eager to locate the creatures' lair, and then perhaps he could return home to Pat.

Shoals of fry were to be seen at the base of the coral cliffs, parting to allow the passage of the two men, but seemingly unafraid of them. Kingfish and bonito regarded them with curiosity, then sped away. There were hundreds of larger fish, too. Blue spotted coral trout, and batfish, vertically striped in black and bronze. Everywhere there was contrast; blacky yellows, greens, browns and oranges. Every conceivable shape existed in the finned residents of the coral reef that were now wondering at these human intruders to their domain.

They paused to study the crustaceans on the ocean bed. Sea worms, gorgonians, starfish, molluscs, and sea squirts.

Davenport tensed as a large crab shambled from beneath a rock, then gave a sigh of relief when he recognised it as a Queensland mud crab.

Klin was pointing. He had noticed an opening in the coral cliff, wide enough to allow them to pass through easily. Possibly a cave lay beyond. It might just have been a huge niche. They could not take any chances. Klin led the way, now having to use his torch as the sunlight did not filter down to these depths.

Blackness. Shoals of tiny fish darted in the beam of light. The passage narrowed somewhat, but continued on into the bowels of the cay, showing no immediate signs of terminating in a cave.

Klin was moving warily, shining the light on floor, ceiling, and sides of the underwater tunnel, leaving no cranny unexplored. Davenport's mouth was dry. He was fully aware that his companion was looking for snakes. Klin's earlier words came back to him, hammering at his brain, ‘these are snake waters ... snake waters ... snake waters ...’

Suddenly something moved up from the bottom, a vivid flash of deep yellow in the torch light Klin reacted instantly, back-pedalling, beam trained on the squat head of the snake, the metal rod with tongue-like jaws raised to meet an attack.

Davenport tensed. He could see the snake clearly now, and recognised it as an Astrotia, capable of biting through a rubber suit if it was of the long fanged variety. Its mouth was closed. There was no way of telling ... yet.

It angled sharply upwards, swam away so that they had a full view of its six foot length, turned, and came straight for them. It reminded Cliff of a cobra. He felt totally helpless. Everything depended upon Klin.

Klin struck with his rod, but the Astrotia was quicker, feinting, swerving, then bypassing it before the fisherman could strike again. Cliff Davenport thrust forward with his torch. He had no other weapon. His finger worked the button which controlled the bulb. On … off … on … off … On. His vision was blinded by Klin's torch as the big man whirled round. There was no room in which to wield the snake stick now. He could only stand and watch.

The snake was stationary, its small eyes regarding the professor in a kind of thoughtful smile as though debating whether or not to attack. Then it lunged, and Cliff felt a blow on his chest which drove him backwards, and at the same moment the torch was knocked from his fingers by a threshing body.

The snake was gone. Klin's beam picked up its retreat for a brief second before it rounded a bend in the passage on its way to the open sea. Then the tall man retrieved Davenport's torch, and handed it to him. It had been a lucky escape. The creature had been of the short-fanged species.

They pressed on, more warily now. Davenport's chest ached where the beast had struck him, and he offered up a prayer of thanks that it had not been a long-fanged Astrotia. Hundreds of Australian fishermen had died from the bites of sea snakes, many of the species possessing venom several times more virulent than any land snake. Generally the bite was painless, but after a few hours the victim's legs became paralysed, the eyes closed, and the jaws locked. After a few days the convulsions followed, death finally coming from respiratory failure. Terrible as they were, Cliff decided, at least one was ensured of a reasonably quick death at the claws of the giant crabs.

At last the passage opened out into a cave some fifty yards long by thirty wide, the roof only inches above their heads, and sloping gradually towards the far end. They hesitated at the entrance, scanning the interior with their torches.

Davenport shuddered involuntarily. The uneven, jagged coral floor of the cave appeared to be alive with sea snakes of all species. There were several olive snakes coiled in close proximity to where the two men stood watching. One raised its serpentine head and looked in their direction. Others stirred. Their daytime rest had been interrupted.

Already Klin was backing away. He had recognised a dozen or more Astrotia. It was inconceivable that they would all be of the short-fanged variety.

Klin and Davenport made a fast retreat out to the open sea, the blackness of the water becoming dark green, then lightening progressively until they were able to see without the aid of their torches.

They made a systematic search of the base of the coral cliff, exploring several more smaller caves. They disturbed a number of mud crabs, but nothing larger. Once they saw a five foot serpent, its head buried in a patch of sand, its natural food. Its yellow and black body swayed in an upright position, the underwater version of the Indian rope trick, but not once did it emerge to look at them.

Eventually they returned to the boat having made a complete circle of the cay.

‘Well,’ Klin said as he shrugged himself out of his wetsuit, ‘there aren't any crabs living down there. That much is certain, and judging by the number of snakes in that cave the sharks will give it a wide berth this season, too. Seems we're wasting our time.’

‘Our time was by no means wasted.’ Cliff knew that it would be a long time before he forgot that lunge by the snake. ‘We've confirmed one thing. The crabs are on the move. They might turn up anywhere, but I don't think it'll be before the next full moon. Not in any numbers, anyway. They're spawning somewhere in these islands, and unless we find them and destroy them pretty quickly, the oceans of the world could be overrun with them. I think, though, we'll move on and try one or two more dives. After that I must put a call through to my wife in London, and let her know that I won't be returning home quite as soon as I had thought originally.’

Bruce MacAndrew had been on Hayman Island for almost a year. During that time his tanned complexion had become pallid, he had lost almost two stone in weight, and his cough had worsened until he had begun spitting blood.

Some years ago he had managed a tea plantation in Ceylon, and it is reasonable to assume that had he confined his drinking habits to that beverage he would not have found his way to Hayman Island. He did not know whether he had cancer or consumption, and he had never consulted a doctor to find out.

His dismissal from the plantation had left him with only the little private income from his father's estate in Scotland. After he had invested in a small lodge amongst the palms on Barbecue Bay, his finances provided for almost a bottle of whisky a day. That was all he asked of life. He slept most of the day, hence the loss of the dark complexion which was the result of a decade spent in the burning heat of Ceylon, and throughout the balmy nocturnal hours he drank solidly. Sometimes, when his illness permitted, he strolled the beach at night. He had no ambitions other than to live from one bottle of whisky to the next. He had no friends. Neither had he any enemies.

The inhabitants of Hayman knew MacAndrew. At least, they knew that he lived in the pastel lodge between Klin's and the shark patrol office. Few saw the Scotsman except those who happened to be abroad during the times of his infrequent night-time beach rambles.

MacAndrew had seen the destroyer in the bay throughout that week. He had noticed it from his window, and he was also aware of the lack of fishing boats at sea, the majority of which remained moored within a hundred yards of his own dwelling. Something was afoot. Even he was stirred to mild curiosity.

A couple of evenings later he decided to venture on to the beach. He had run out of whisky earlier that afternoon, and a trip to the hotel would be necessary for him to purchase another bottle to enable him to pass the hours of darkness tolerably.

He closed the door of his lodge and stood blinking in the brightness of the evening, squinting at the destroyer anchored half a mile away across the deep-blue water, the last rays of the setting sun glinting on its formidable outline. He hiccoughed, and wondered if there was a threat of war. It was a long time now since he had sold his radio. The newspapers he saw were always at least a month old.

He would find out all about it in the bar of the Royal Hayman Hotel. Corder would know. If the reporter was in a generous frame of mind he might even buy him a drink. But first, MacAndrew decided, he would walk on the beach.

His step was unsteady, his legs having difficulty in supporting his weight just as if he had been confined to bed for a lengthy period. His feet sank deeply into the powdery sand above the high-water mark, and twice he almost fell. Only when he gained the firmer sand did he walk more easily, but even so his course was erratic. Instinctively he headed towards the tideline. It was always more interesting along there. Sometimes empty bottles were washed up by the tide. Bottles fascinated him. Once he had had a dream. He had come upon an unopened bottle of whisky lying in the sand. He could not resist examining every bottle he saw after that.

There were people on the beach, but mostly they seemed to be congregating in the proximity of the hotel. He wondered idly why nobody was bathing or surfing, and concluded that perhaps a shark warning had been issued recently.

He concentrated on the tideline again. There were some pieces of dead mangrove that had probably come from one of the small deserted islands out at sea, and some other items of rubbish that had obviously been deposited by the Hayman bathers themselves.

He felt dizzy. The fresh air seemed to aggravate his cough rather than ease it. He retched, and the sand at his feet was spotted with crimson-tinted spittle. It was as he straightened up, gasping for air, that he saw the object bobbing in towards him on the tide. He stood and watched it because he had not the strength to move on for a few moments.

He could not discern its shape for most of it was below water. It appeared to be approximately the size of a football with a mass of black weed growing on the top of it, waterlogged, and floating with difficulty. A wave caught it, but did not lift it out of the water, merely propelling it forward a yard or so where it bobbed and waited for the next onrush of water.

MacAndrew continued to watch it. He judged it to be about twenty feet from the edge of the tide, and idly he worked out the time it would take before it beached. A wave every twenty seconds (he counted the intervening time lag), pushing it forward a yard. It had a habit of drifting back seawards a foot or so after each submergence. Say two feet of progress every twenty seconds. His wait would be no more than three or four minutes.

He squatted down on the wet sand, and his dizziness subsided a little. He decided that he ought to try and take more fresh air. He half contemplated retracing his steps. That way he would be forced to endure a night without alcohol. The hotel would be closed in an hour.

It was a brave thought, but he knew it was no good. It would only mean that he would be going in search of Corder in the early hours of the morning, risking the wrath of the newspaperman when he was knocked up, beseeching, pleading. He had tried it before. Perhaps he ought to try and break the habit slowly, buy half a bottle instead of a full one. No, that wouldn't work either. There was no escape. Only death would save him from drink.

Now the object was barely a yard away from him. It was stuck in the sand, too heavy to float the last few feet, partly submerged, only that straggling black weed on top of it visible.

Hell, it was no good to him, whatever it was. He stared at it, but still he was unable to identify it. He rested on his knees watching it. It was just about within reach. If he wanted it he had to act now, otherwise the incoming water would cover it and force him to retreat. Then he would never know.

He stretched out an arm, noting how his extended fingers trembled. He might not even have the strength to lift the thing ashore. That would not matter, as long as he discovered what it was.

He had never felt weed so smooth and silky. Long and black, it grew profusely out of the thing. He secured a hold, and tested it for weight. Whatever it was it was heavy, but not too heavy. He could just about lift it.

Slowly it came clear of the water, unrecognisable at first, but as it swung round the eyes met his, wide and staring even in death, the mouth held open in rigor mortis, sea water spewing from it, the trailing neck tendons giving it the appearance of a baby octopus. A severed human head!

MacAndrew stared into the face of Mackie, the fisherman, and in the same instant his fingers loosened their grip on the waterlogged hair, and the head dropped back into the tide with a dull splash.

The ex-tea planter staggered to his feet, started to run, and fell headlong. Feverishly he picked himself up, opened his mouth to scream, but his cry of terror was drowned by a fit of consumptive coughing.

By the time he had finished vomiting the instinct to scream had left him. He felt incredibly weak. He staggered slowly towards a line of rocks at the foot of the golden beach which led up to the hotel, and flung himself amongst them. He would have to rest for a while before attempting the last two hundred yards or so of his journey.

The sun had dipped behind the low hills and savannah woodlands. Shadows crept over the beach. It was deserted. Everybody had gone.

MacAndrew shivered and found himself compelled to look back towards the sea. Something dark, a mere speck, was bobbing up and down in the tide.

He shivered again.

Caroline du Brunner was on the verge of orgasmic delight which, in itself, was the ultimate in life for her.

She was crouched on all fours, and was thus unable to watch the expression of the man who drove relentlessly into her from the rear, each powerful thrust seeming to penetrate her further and further. She groaned and would have fallen flat on her face had not two strong hands been cupped over her breasts, supporting her.

Her only regret was that she was unable to savour the wonderful build-up of tension which flooded outwards from her womb to every nerve in her body. Everything was violently out of control. She writhed, sobbed, but the well-built man with the damaged ear and scarred lower lip was dominating her totally. He was tireless, and had the staying power of a steam-driven piston. Not once during the last quarter of an hour had he slackened his pace. Prior to that, the seduction had been superb.

Suddenly everything seemed to explode inside Caroline du Brunner. She convulsed, arched her back, sagged forward, and almost lost consciousness as a violent orgasm took possession of her.

She tried to open her eyes but she could not focus. Everything was a blur, and her body trembled beautifully, wave after wave of passion swamping her as she prayed that it would go on forever.

Dimly she was aware that her man was lying by her side, caressing her tenderly, and the bedclothes were covering them. He obviously intended stopping the whole night with her. Perhaps before morning they would make love again. She could not remember when she had last been so beautifully satisfied.

It was dark in the room, and her lover was no more than a silhouette. Ugly, but handsome. That was crazy, she thought. “Rugged” was the word. Features that had been damaged almost beyond recognition. The ear, the lip, the left eye permanently half closed, a nose that had been broken in two places at some time or other. The last time she had seen his photograph a beard had hidden some of these. Captain Manton had been younger then. It must have been all of ten years ago.

She studied the outline of his body. Sheer muscle. Fifteen stone of it, and not an ounce of surplus flesh.

‘Captain Manton … Gerry,’ she murmured when once she could trust herself to speak. ‘You are a superb lover.’

‘And you, Caroline,’ he replied, ‘are a nympho.’

They both laughed.

Suddenly, impetuously, she said, ‘Or perhaps I ought to call you Frank, Frank Burke!’

She noticed him stiffen and heard him catch his breath. The hand resting on her shoulder gripped it until she almost yelled out in pain.

‘What did you say?’ he hissed.

‘I merely called you by your real name,’ her voice trembled, and she regretted her earlier words, but it was too late to retract. ‘You're Frank Burke. You served seven years of a ten year sentence for armed robbery. A bank in England. A guard was killed, but they couldn't pin the shooting on you. Neither did they find the twenty-five thousand that was stolen. You had a beard then. It's taken me three whole days to work out who you were. You might have fooled everybody else on Hayman Island, but you didn't pull the wool over Caroline du Brunner's eyes. I had you taped.’

‘And what do you propose to do about it?’ His grip tightened again on her shoulder, and she was grateful that she was unable to see into those eyes. This man had killed once before.

‘Nothing,’ she winced, and tried to speak evenly. ‘Nothing at all, Captain Manton. It's no business of mine. The law can't touch you now, anyway. You've served your time. And, anyway, you make love too superbly for me to start drawing attention to you.’

Frank Burke laughed softly and, pulling her thighs forcibly apart, he rolled on top of her.

Chapter 6

Night had fallen by the time MacAndrew began to see a humorous side to the recent events which had driven him to this small clump of rocks on the beach below the Royal Hayman Hotel. The tide had advanced, and now the water lapped at his feet, forcing him to climb up above its reaches. It never once occurred to him to vacate this place, and walk on up to the hotel. He had even forgotten about whisky. He was happier than he had been for years.

He laughed softly to himself as he remembered the expression on Mackie's face, the mouth open, the eyes wide in astonishment. Fancy the fellow's head going for a swim on its own. Maybe the body had gone off for a walk in the hills meantime. The idea sent MacAndrew into peals of mirth which drifted across the sands on the sea breezes.

He tried to stop laughing but he couldn't. After a time it made him feel quite weak, and when he thought about moving he was physically unable to do so. That sent him into yet another fit of laughter.

The water touched his feet, and he drew his legs up still further. By now he was on the highest rock. There was nowhere else to go, and the tide which had silently crept around him now stretched as far as the hotel beach. He was completely cut off.

And still he roared with uncontrollable laughter. It would be such a pleasant change to spend a night out in the open, do him the world of good. Maybe that was what Mackie had been intending to do, but his body had had a row with itself. The head had said it was going for a swim, and the trunk had insisted upon a tramp in the hills. So they had parted company. MacAndrew hoped that Mackie hadn't minded him picking him up out of the tide like that, and then dropping him back. It wasn't a very polite thing to do.

Perhaps Mackie's head was still swimming around. MacAndrew peered into the darkness, water everywhere, up to his knees now. Yes - he stared hard for some time - there was something out there, a patch of blackness showing against the reflection of the sky on the water. Well, fancy that, old Mackie's head hadn't tired of its nocturnal bathe yet.

MacAndrew began to shout, attempting to control the cauldron of mirth which still bubbled and seethed inside him.

‘Hey, Mackie, look out for sharks you old bastard. Ha, ha, ha. Come on up here on the rocks. It's nice. Ha, ha. Where's that body of yours got to, eh?’

MacAndrew sank back exhausted. Why didn't the stupid bugger answer? Bloody rude of him. Gradually the Scotsman's humour turned to anger. He decided he didn't like being ignored.

‘Don't be a fucking snob, man.’

He narrowed his eyes, and picked out the patch again. It was definitely closer. Maybe Mackie was coming to sit and chat to him on the rocks. He curbed the flow of insults which were gathered in his throat, and wondered idly how you managed to get your head off. Maybe it unscrewed. He placed the fingers of both hands around his neck and twisted. The result was a sudden shortage of breath followed by a bout of violent choking. There had to be a knack, he decided. Mackie would show him. It would make such a nice change.

‘Come and show me how you get your fucking head off,’ he yelled, and was only just in time to grab a piece of jagged rock and stop himself from sliding down into the water. It was up past his waist, and steadily rising.

Mackie was closer now. No more than ten yards away. MacAndrew could see the outline of the fisherman's head. It was bigger. Much bigger. A different shape, too. Yet the eyes were smaller, and no longer dead and lifeless. They glowed redly.

‘Never realised you'd got such a bloody big head. Water on the brain, eh, made it swell. Ha, ha, ha. What's the matter with you, lost your tongue?’

The eyes were virtually level with the water. No more than a couple of yards away. MacAndrew became even more angry at the other's silence.

‘Trying to be funny, eh. Well, it won't work with me. If you're not going to be sociable you can piss off. You ... hey, let go of my leg!’

MacAndrew tried to shake off the underwater hold on his left leg. Something was gripping it like a vice. In a frenzy he kicked with his right leg. That was caught and held, too. A sharp pain caused him to yelp and tug like a puppy which has accidentally become caught in a rabbit snare. The bone was being crushed.

His hands gripped the rock. He was being dragged down into the water, and all the time those glowing baleful eyes watched him without moving.

‘Oh, Christ!’ he began to scream. ‘My legs. You bastard, Mackie!’

The agony was insufferable. No longer did he try to cling to his perch, but threshed helplessly as, inch by inch, he was dragged down the slippery rock until only his chin remained above water. His eyes were on a level with those of his attacker, less than a couple of feet separating them.

‘Oh, God, you're not Mackie!’ the whisper was scarcely audible. ‘You're the devil himself. You sent Mackie's head for a swim, and now -’

MacAndrew's words trailed off in a stream of bubbles as he was dragged below water. He no longer fought. Pairs of evil red eyes surrounded him. So this was hell. Water, not fire, a thousand times more frightening.

The pain left him. In fact, he thought it was rather restful in this underwater Hades. He couldn't feel a thing even though he knew that they were dissecting him with huge knives. He sensed, rather than felt, the grip on his throat, and knew that they were going to send his head out to swim with Mackie's.

Shannon was far from happy. Not only was he apparently expected to work twenty-four hours a day, but it appeared that he was also obliged to make innumerable cups of coffee for a host of different people who chose to expound their theories in his office.

There's been a score of silly bleeders in and out of here all day.' He pushed three mugs of coffee across the desk towards Davenport, Klin, and Corder, and his expression indicated that that was the lot for the night. He had finished the last can of beer shortly before their arrival.

The telephone hasn't stopped ringing, the wireless hasn't let up, the captain of that bloody destroyer out there has wasted two hours of my time. Riordan's done three shifts without a break, and in my spare time I've been trying to convince a bunch of wailing women that I haven't a clue what's happened to their husbands but whatever has, it's their own silly fucking fault for going out there. Now there's a radio message from one of the submarines to say that they've picked up something on their radar screen but they don't know what it is. Told me to stand by. Stand by! I've had thirty-six fucking hours without -’

‘Cool it,’ Davenport interrupted, smiling as he spoke so as to take the sting out of the words. ‘We're all under pressure. Every one of us. I've confirmed that at least the crabs aren't hiding out in the vicinity. Mind you, we know from past experience that they can travel at a hell of a rate, but ...’

The stillness of the night was suddenly disturbed. A volley of shots rang out, followed by more firing a few seconds later.

‘What the hell?’ Kiln was on his feet.

‘It's coming from the hotel!’ Shannon was already heading towards the door, grabbing a rifle from the rack as he did so. ‘It's them marines who put ashore this evening. A boatload of 'em came from the destroyer.’

‘Wait!’ Davenport snapped.

The radio was crackling in the next room. At the same moment the telephone on the desk started to ring.

Shannon swore and turned back. Davenport picked up the receiver. Immediately his expression became grave.

‘I see,’ his voice was terse. ‘Yes, we're on our way now. No, don't try to resist. Get a retreat organised as best you can. Make for the hills. They won't follow up there. It's too far from the water. Yes. Hurry.’

As he rang off Shannon came back from the radio.

‘It's the crabs,’ he was trembling visibly. ‘The submarine picked 'em up. Loosed off a couple of torpedoes but didn't score a hit. Big bunch of 'em, headin' into the bay.’

‘They're already ashore.’ Cliff Davenport took three rifles from the rack, and passed one each to Klin and Corder. ‘Not that these are much good, but I suppose they're better than nothing. Come on, let's use the jeep and take a looksee. I've told the captain of the marines to organise a retreat of both armed forces and civilians. Surrender property. We don't have any damned chance. Hell, I never expected anything like this to happen in between full moons. Come on, let's go.’

With Shannon at the wheel the jeep roared out on to the beach road.

The attack was as perfectly coordinated as any military manoeuvre in the history of warfare. The creatures came in on the tide, cloaked by darkness whereas under a full moon they would certainly have been seen by the marine sentry before they reached the fine dry sand of the Royal Hayman Hotel beach.

They advanced in a series of V formations, each following close on the other as do skeins of wild geese in flight, a huge crab, almost half as large again as any of the others, in the lead.

An army of behemoths came from the depths converging upon the hotel as though this fine building was a prearranged target.

Click. Click. Click. Clickety-click.

Their military intelligence, second to none, neither man nor beast, had no way of overcoming the noise made by those tremendous pincers as they moved. This was the only warning which the two sentries, instructed to patrol the perimeter of the hotel, had of the impending attack.

Click. Click. Clickety-click.

The sound was intensified by the hills at the rear, a noise that heralded death as surely as had the clicking of knitting needles below the guillotines during the French Revolution.

Two portable searchlights had been set up in readiness that evening, and now the marines sent twin beams of dazzling white light sweeping the beach, reflecting the glinting red eyes, and dozens of pairs of pincers waving menacingly. And the huge crustacean which led them was less than fifty yards away! They had used the tide to their advantage, too, not emerging until it had flowed to the full, thereby rendering their approach both silent and invisible until the very last moment when they emerged on to dry land.

The two men brought their repeating carbines to their shoulders and began firing simultaneously, their target the hideous monster at the apex of the oncoming army of giant crabs.

No sooner had the first shots echoed out across the bay than a dozen more marines came tumbling out of the foyer where they had bedded down for the night less than an hour before. A sergeant remained behind to telephone the shark patrol and to radio the destroyer. But already it seemed that the defensive action was too late. A hail of bullets neither harmed nor deterred the attackers, bouncing off like hailstones on slate roofs.

Caroline du Brunner was at the very peak of her second stupendous orgasm of the night when the firing broke out. This time she shrieked her delight aloud, and was kicking and windmilling wildly with her legs when Frank Burke drew back with a suddenness which took her by surprise, his perfectly timed ejaculation still spurting on to her legs.

‘Gunfire!’ he grunted.

She grabbed for him instinctively, but her fingers slipped off. He pushed her roughly back, and leapt to the large bow window. The turmoil below was horrifically illuminated by one searchlight. The other was smashed, and the marine who had bravely attempted to defend it was at that very moment being held aloft, firmly clutched in a massive pincer. Burke felt the bile rise into his throat as the man dropped to the ground, neatly severed in two halves.

‘Jesus!’ he whispered, and turned to the girl on the bed. ‘We gotta be movin'...’

Caroline du Brunner was still writhing in ecstasy. The sounds of battle had not penetrated her supreme delights. She convulsed madly, now using the fingers of both hands to further her delights.

Burke was at her side in two strides, seizing her hands, dragging them clear of her shuddering body.

‘You stupid over sexed wench!’ he hissed. ‘You never seen anything like what's going on out there, and all you can think of doing is tossing yourself off!’

‘Let me go,’ she fought him angrily, her emotions still ruling. ‘Let me go. I'm -’

He did not wait for a detailed explanation of what she was doing. The flat of his hand caught her across the face and she fell back. In the same instant he grabbed her nightdress and threw it at her. He looked for his own clothing, found pants and vest, and started pulling them on.

‘We're leaving, pronto,’ he snapped. ‘You and me, and a suitcase I've got to get from my room. Hang on here. I won't be a moment.’

Heavy booted footsteps sounded in the corridor outside. Someone was banging on bedroom doors and shouting, ‘Everybody out. Assemble at the rear. Immediately.’

A fire alarm was ringing downstairs.

Frank Burke tugged the bedroom door open, and the heavy fist of a burly sergeant of marines, in the process of knocking, almost hit him in the face.

‘Everybody out, sir. Quick.’

‘I gotta get somethin' from my room.’

‘I said everybody out Abandon the building and property.’

‘There's a girl in here,’ Burke inclined his head, and the marine pushed past him into the room, sparing a moment, even in the heat of the crisis, to stare at the spectacle of the naked Caroline du Brunner as she swung herself off the bed.

Frank Burke took advantage of the diversion, and ran down the corridor. People were emerging from their bedrooms, the expressions of horror on their faces as proof that they had viewed the scenes of carnage from their bedroom windows. Women screamed hysterically.

He pushed past them. He wasn't going anywhere without the small suitcase which lay beneath his bed. It contained in excess of twenty thousand pounds in used English and Australian currency. Without it he was nothing. Seven years spent in prison would have been wasted. Captain Manton would evaporate as surely as the morning mist beneath the rays of the rising sun.

Harvey Logan had prayed for such a moment, but had never dreamed that his prayers would be answered. The arrival of the marines earlier had been an omen. A good one. He had cleaned and oiled his beloved double-barrelled .500 Express rifle. Then he had loaded it, and left it in readiness by his bedroom window. As an afterthought he had placed an open box of shells by it.

Merely to lie and look at it gave him pleasure. It aroused him far more than ever Caroline du Brunner was capable of doing. It had real beauty. Guns, he told himself, were like women. You tried a lot out, but only seldom did you come across one that really suited you. Then you stuck to it.

The first shots brought him from the light sleep into which he had fallen. Alertness came with wakefulness, and he had picked up the Express before he even glanced out of the window.

‘Beautiful,’ he murmured as he surveyed the first line of crabs immediately below him. ‘Incredible.’

A tremor of excitement like a mild electric current coursed through his body. He felt neither revulsion nor fear, and he scarcely glanced twice at the fate of the first sentry. He did not hurry. A moment such as this had to be savoured. No herd of' elephants or buffaloes could in any way compare with the bevy of trophies which he could claim by selective shooting. He cradled the heavy gun comfortably against his shoulder, supported his elbows on the window sill, and then his gaze alighted on the massive crab which was without any doubt the leader of this invasion from the deep.

‘Mine,’ he breathed, and focused his sights on the grotesque head, taking his time, determined to place his first bullet between those two eyes, lining the twin barrels up between the glowing red beads of evil.

He sighted, took a trigger pressure, held his breath, and squeezed. The report was deafening, the recoil almost throwing him back into the room.

The triumphant smile vanished from his features to be replaced by one of bewilderment, disappointment, then anger. It was unbelievable. The crab, totally unperturbed, was commencing to tear down a length of balustrade outside some first floor bedrooms, reaching up to a height of at least ten feet with its nippers.

Harvey Logan took aim again. His hands shook slightly this time. He couldn't possibly have missed. Now he aimed for the open jaws, and squeezed again.

A second thunderous crash followed a moment later. The crab continued to slash at the woodwork, finally bringing a length of it splintering down, trapping a marine. Another crustacean moved in on the man.

Logan cursed as he ejected the spent shells, and reloaded. It was crazy. Impossible. He could not have missed. He fired again, a quick double shot, but the huge creature appeared to be totally unaware that it was being shot at.

Then the sergeant of marines burst in through the door.

‘C'mon, China,’ he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘We're pollin' out, and that means you as well.’

Logan muttered at the man to get stuffed but the other was gone, hammering on more doors, and yelling to guests and staff alike. The big game hunter stepped back to the open window. The crab leader was attempting to climb up on to the balcony immediately below him. Its efforts were ungainly and ineffective. The claws could not obtain a hold on the concrete ledge which was barely capable of sustaining the monster's weight. It slipped back, fell, and rolled over on to its back.

Harvey Logan fired yet again, but within seconds the giant crab had regained its feet, and made yet another attempt to scale the balcony. It was invincible. And it did not know the meaning of defeat.

Logan quickly dressed, and picking up the gun, he dropped the remaining cartridges into his pocket. He was bewildered. He needed time to think. He stepped out into the corridor, and headed in the direction of the rear fire escape.

The noise from outside was deafening. Gunfire, yelling, falling masonry, and a continual clicking of the crabs as they pushed the small resisting line of marines back.

The long wide second-floor corridor was deserted as he hurried along. Everyone, it seemed, had already fled. Then, a door of one of the rooms opened and a large man with a scarred face emerged, clutching a suitcase. In their haste the two men collided. Logan cursed under his breath, and the other staggered back. The suitcase was knocked from his hand, and as it hit the floor the catch burst open. A pile of loose currency spilled on to the floor, mostly English five-pound notes and Australian dollar bills of large denominations.

The two of them stared in silence, at each other and then down at the money.

‘You clumsy bastard!’ Frank Burke snarled.

Harvey Logan acted instinctively with the split-second reactions borne of long forays into the world's most remote places. He swung the Express rifle upwards, bringing the barrels hard against the other's head. Burke grunted, his eyes glazed, and he slid slowly to the floor.

Logan rested his gun against the wall, stooped down, grasped the unconscious man by the shoulders, and dragged him back into the room. When the big game hunter emerged again he locked the door behind him, and pocketed the key. It took him but a few moments to scoop the spilled money back into the suitcase, and then, gun in one hand, case in the other, he descended the iron fire escape to where a crowd of staff and guests were being marshalled by three marines. At the rear of the throng, clad in the flimsiest of night attire, he saw Caroline du Brunner. Within a couple of minutes they were being led away up the rough track towards the hills, a marine at the head of the column, two more bringing up the rear, everybody hurrying, glancing fearfully behind them every few seconds. But there was no pursuit.

The remaining marines at the Royal Hayman Hotel were now only intent on preventing the crabs from pursuing the evacuees. There was no question of driving the creatures back to the sea. They were invincible.

The destroyer was only two or three hundred yards off shore, its searchlights trained on the battle, but it was powerless to intervene. The use of its heavy artillery was a risk to human life. Marines and civilians would surely have been killed had they fired on the besieged hotel. All they could do was wait and watch.

A submarine waited at the mouth of the bay, the crew hoping to atone for that earlier torpedo miss.

The giant crab leader finally dragged itself up on to the first floor balcony. After that it was only a formality to smash the large French windows and enter the building. Doorways presented no obstacle. It enlarged them by sheer brute force amidst falling girders and bricks. Floors and ceilings shuddered beneath its progress. Yet it was not bent solely on a quest of destruction. Those eyes peered inside rooms, and sometimes it did not even take the trouble to force an entrance. It was hunting … for human victims! It sensed that all the occupants might not have fled.

Its search of the first floor proved fruitless. Eventually it arrived at the wide staircase leading up to the second. The heavy woodwork creaked beneath its weight as it began the ascent. It did not hurry. The shooting from below was spasmodic now. Once again the giant crabs had proved their supremacy over mankind. This was only the beginning.

Frank Burke regained consciousness slowly. His head ached abominably, and for some time he lay there trying to recollect recent events. The big fellow, the hunter, had hit him. Why? Suddenly he remembered the suitcase, and forced himself to sit up. A red haze shimmered before his eyes. Where was the case, the money?

He crawled to the door, pulled himself up, and tugged at the handle. It held firm, and there was no sign of the key. It was locked from the outside.

‘Help!’ Burke yelled, and kicked frenziedly at the woodwork. ‘Let me out.’

Surely a marine would hear him. The shooting seemed to have died away. They had driven the crabs off. Once he was free Frank Burke meant to go in search of Harvey Logan. Then he heard somebody coming down the corridor.

‘Help. Let me out.’

The movements stopped on the other side of the door. Something scraped against it.

‘Let me out, goddamn you!’

Burke rattled the handle. A heavy object crashed against the door. He stood back. They couldn't find the key so they were using an axe to get to him. A panel bulged and splintered. A hinge gave way, and then another blow sent the door flying inwards.

‘Oh, my God!’

Frank Burke cowered in the furthest corner of the room, unable to accept the sight which greeted his eyes. The expression on those crustacean features was one of sheer gloating. The crab's systematic search of the hotel had proved worthwhile.

It knew that its victim could not escape.

The creature was too large to squeeze through the doorway. It stretched out a pincer but it could not quite reach the blubbering man.

The doorframe bulged under pressure, and plaster showered down from the ceiling above. Frank Burke glanced about him. The window behind him was open. Beneath it was a forty-foot drop to a concrete patio below.

He dragged himself up on to the sill, swung a leg over, and hesitated. The choice of death was his. A crash and an avalanche of rubble heralded the crab's entry into the room. A pincer stretched out towards the ex-convict and he pushed himself off into space, screaming as he plummeted earthwards, arms and legs flailing. A sickening thud, then silence. For Frank Burke it was all over.

The huge crab hissed angrily, and slashed at walls and furniture with its nippers, its rage mounting along with the pile of wreckage. It was not accustomed to being denied its prey.

Shannon slammed on the brakes of the jeep, and the vehicle slewed sideways across the coast road.

‘Fuckin' hell!’ he muttered.

A line of advancing crabs barred their progress. There was no way through.

The shark patrol officer reversed, and swung the jeep back the way they had come.

‘There's a rough track about a hundred yards on your left,’ Klin yelled. ‘It's our only chance.’

Shannon nodded, and shortly afterwards the four of them were enduring the uneven sharp climb up to the wooded hills. Cliff Davenport glanced behind him. There was no pursuit. True to form the giant crabs were confining their terrible devastations to areas in immediate proximity to the coast.

Shannon pulled off the road, and switched off lights and engine. There was no sound of shooting now. Just a faint click, click, clickety-click as the invaders concentrated on total annihilation within the area they had conquered.

Chapter 7

The crabs moved away from the hotel, following obediently as their monstrous leader headed along the road parallel to the bay. His antennae waved menacingly. He was angry. Very angry. None would dare to stand in his way.

There was no sign of human life, except for the vehicle with dazzling lights which had fled before them. They made no attempt to pursue it.

The pastel lodges crumbled beneath the advancing crustaceans. The shark patrol headquarters suffered a similar fate, and then they turned their attention to the line of fishing boats moored at the water's edge. Klin's was the first to be shattered to a heap of matchwood and left to float out on the ebbing tide. All boats were a threat to ocean life. The crabs hated boats more than anything else.

There were about a dozen craft moored on that part of Barbecue Bay. It took the crabs less than ten minutes to demolish them; unrecognisable debris drifting out into the bay.

A circle of white light bathed the monstrous wreckers as they turned in an orderly fashion towards the tide. The destroyer had crept silently into the bay, as far as it dared without the risk of running aground. The naval commander surveyed the crustaceans from a distance of some three hundred yards. The area was devoid of human life. He gave the order to fire.

The battery of six-inch guns responded immediately, their flashes and thunderous belchings of death more violent than any tropical storm. The aim of the gunners allowed for a considerable margin of error for the beach was closely packed with the invaders, and it would have been an unlucky shell which had ploughed harmlessly into the powdery sand.

The bombardment left its mark. One crab actually rolled over, stunned for a few seconds, then righted itself. Its shell was chipped, but not cracked. Splinters flew from several others, and for a moment panic almost took over. It was their leader who restored order in the ranks which threatened to break and scurry aimlessly, anywhere to be away from that blinding white light and the heavy messengers of destruction which whined ashore.

The monster reared up, pincers aloft, a gesture of defiance to the attackers. A missile struck him but he scarcely faltered. Waving pincers, a half circle that was the order to return to the sea.

The crabs were reforming into Vs, shuffling with trained precision, now heedless of the continual gunfire from the warship. Direct hits went unnoticed as they hurried to obey the awesome monster who ruled over them, the only one for whom they showed any respect in the oceans of the world.

All except one crab. This creature had been outside the circle of blinding light when the firing had begun. Yet, by a chance in a million, a turn of fate as inexplicable as its own existence, the crab had received a mortal wound. It was no direct hit, but a ricochet off that crustacean which had been momentarily felled. The missile had glanced off this latter creature and embarked upon a course which took it between several more until at last it found its mark, burying itself in this unlucky crustacean, entering below the face and lodging in the flesh. The crab, dropped and lay still, dazed by something which was totally foreign to it … pain!

It remained where it was as the battalions disappeared back into the sea, crouching mortally wounded in the shadows, unnoticed by its comrades as they obeyed the order to retreat.

There was no hint of defeat in any of the columns as they disappeared into the ebbing tide, the blinding light and crashing guns trained on them until the last one had disappeared from sight. It was merely a tactical withdrawal, their leader being the last to leave, nippers raised towards the destroyer audaciously, a crustacean promise that mankind had not seen the last of his grotesque army. They would be back, and their return would herald death and destruction unprecedented since the dawn of evolution.

Professor Clifford Davenport, Shannon, Klin, and Corder watched the retreat from a vantage point in the hills beyond, the scene below them bathed in the destroyer's searchlights, the shadows beyond continually lit up by the flashes of the guns.

‘Wal, there they go.’ There was a distinct note of relief in Shannon's voice.

‘Yes,’ Davenport's expression was grim. ‘But they'll be back. They're only going because they can't remain out of water for more than a few hours, but, God man, I'd never dreamed that there were so many of them. They've multiplied like colonies of rats or rabbits, and there's no telling how many more there are crawling around the ocean bed that we haven't seen. We'd better get down there and see the extent of the damage.’

Shannon pressed the starter and the engine of the jeep spluttered into life. He was thankful that Riordan had been away on the mainland to have a small mechanical fault repaired. One helicopter was all that remained of the Hayman Island shark patrol.

The evacuated residents of the hotel huddled together in a eucalyptus grove some quarter of a mile into the hills. They talked in fearful whispers. Even now they could hardly accept what had happened.

The three marines stood looking back down the road. The bay itself was screened from them by the trees. Pursuit was unlikely, but they could not afford to take any risks.

Harvey Logan moved slowly away from the others. In his right hand he clutched the Express, in his left the suitcase which he had taken from Frank Burke.

The big game hunter regretted not having killed the big man. It would have been simplicity itself. One extra dead body amongst the slain would not have aroused enough suspicion to invite an inquiry. If the fellow still lived then problems might arise. It was doubtful whether he had acquired the money legitimately so the chances of the law being involved were remote. All the same, Logan knew that he had to get away from Hayman Island with that suitcase at the first opportunity. But there was something he knew he must do before he left. He had to kill one of those huge crabs. The chance would probably never present itself again. He would puzzle over that miss, for miss it surely was, and would never be able to live with himself again unless he rectified it.

All sportsmen are aware that in isolated instances during their lifetime they are guilty of gross negligence and abominable carelessness. They blame themselves if they are honest. Harvey Logan cursed himself for missing that crab. Complacency, overconfidence at the prospect of one of the easiest shots he had ever taken was responsible for it. The thing had been too close. He had snatched the trigger rather than squeezing it, and the barrels had been off target before the bullets left them. That was the only explanation. He did not make excuses even to himself, but he meant to atone for the poor marksmanship. Without delay.

He moved away from the clearing, glancing back as he walked stealthily, keeping to the shadows. His departure went unnoticed. He began to hurry. The enemy might decide to retreat at any moment.

His route was not an easy one, especially in the darkness. In spite of his experience of wilder, more dangerous, places, he fell twice, catching his foot in an exposed root. He cursed silently, picked himself up, and clutching gun and suitcase, pressed on.

After some time he came out on the track up which they had retreated, some distance below the marines, but hidden from their view. Out of the wood it was not so pitch black, and he was able to discern the landscape by the light of the stars. In the distance the beach was lit up by the destroyer's searchlights. He saw the moving lines of crabs on their way back to the sea, and the vivid flashes as the bombardment commenced.

He began to run towards the shore. His mission had become an obsession now. Just one crab, that was all he asked. Not even the big feller. Just a crab.

He went through the hotel, pausing briefly to gaze on the havoc around him. The remains of the marines who had covered the evacuation lay in the foyer. Logan had no idea how many of them there had been originally. Without counting all the dismembered limbs it was impossible to tell. Just one massive mutilation, strewn all over the place. Once he slipped and almost fell as he trod in a pool of blood.

He felt no revulsion. Death was a way of life to him. Usually he assisted his native bearers in the skinning of elephants and lions. The stench was sweet to his nostrils, the smell of success. It was all part of killing.

Outside, at the front of the hotel, the fallen balustrade barred his way. Feverishly, he began to climb over it, clutching suitcase and gun, making his task doubly difficult.

Ahead of him lay the hotel beach. The destroyer was really bombing the crabs now. Logan stood and watched for a moment. The enemy were well to his left, two or three hundred yards away. He could hear the shells, some landing in the sand with dull thuds, others glancing off the impregnable backs of the crustacean army and whining away into the blackness beyond.

The retreating monsters were a black moving mass against the lighter background of the sand. He could make out the leader, arrogant, unafraid, impervious to a shell which struck him and glanced off.

Harvey Logan broke into a run, but his progress was slowed when he came to the fine sand above the tideline. His feet sank in above his boots, and he floundered.

The crabs were disappearing into the sea. Columns of them walked in an orderly fashion, the ebbing tide swallowing them up.

‘Stop, you bastards!’ Logan started to shout as his frustration built up to a peak. ‘You fucking cowards! Come back!’

Eventually he reached firm sand. Too far off to shoot, he told himself. Get closer. Take your time.

‘Oh, God!’

He came to a standstill, all the bitterness he felt summed up in that exclamation. The final column was entering the water. The leader turned towards the destroyer, pincers aloft in a last gesture of triumph and arrogance. Then he shambled after his minions.

Harvey Logan sank down to his knees, his breath coming in great gulps. They were gone. All gone. But they had fled from him, hadn't they? That was why they had gone back into the sea, not because the destroyer was firing at them. He smiled to himself at these thoughts, and then he saw the crab.

It was its eyes which gave it away, like a couple of coals still glowing in a heap of dead ashes. He peered, and was able to make out its shape, a denser patch in the shadows. It squatted there, no more than thirty yards from him, watching him intently. It made no effort to move. He recognised it as being wounded, but it made no difference to him. Had not those huge elephant tusks which adorned the walls of his study back in America belonged to a wounded bull. The bullet in its shoulder had not come from his own gun. But it did not matter. Nobody else knew. A trophy was a trophy.

He was reluctant to put the suitcase down even for a few seconds. Within it were the means by which he could embark upon several more safaris. It was heavy. Almost as heavy as the Express.

He advanced a few paces, half expecting a shambling rush from the crab. It did not move. Only its eyes signified that life still pulsed within the mighty shell.

Bigger than a sheep, Logan mused, twice as big. It's had it, too. If I just stand here, it'll die.

But that was not the way he wanted it. Soon more marines would be coming ashore. Possibly troops would be flown out from the mainland. When they arrived Harvey Logan wanted to take the credit. The big guns couldn't stop the killers from the deep, but he, Harvey Logan, one of the last of the surviving big game hunters, had succeeded in doing just that. His photograph would be in newspapers throughout the world, perched upon the shell of his kill, gun cradled in the crook of his arm. Instant fame.

He put the suitcase down, cocked the gun, and raised it to his shoulder. It was closer than even the big one had been, just squatting, looking at him. He fired the first barrel, lowered his weapon. The crab still stared at him. The only difference was an increased malevolence in those two glinting orbs that seemed to bore into him. He gave it the second barrel.

He could not believe it. It was not possible. No creature on earth could survive two .500 bullets at point blank range. They must have lodged in its brain. No way was his marksmanship at fault this time.

Delayed reactions, he decided. That was the answer. He'd read somewhere that it often took a prehistoric creature as long as five minutes to die even with its brain shattered, the time lag between the message of death being conveyed to other parts of its body.

He could wait. But in the meantime he would make sure. He fumbled in his pockets for more cartridges, and reloaded. His fingers trembled as he closed the breech. The excitement of the kill. It wasn't fear.

He fired again, both barrels, one after the other. Red eyes returned his fire with a volley of hate. Antennae waved in the air feebly, a pincer scuffed the sand.

‘Die, damn you!’ he yelled, and his self-control snapped.

Reload. Fire. Reload. Fire. A dozen shots echoed across the deserted beach of Barbecue Bay, and then Harvey Logan's supply of ammunition was exhausted.

Man and crab regarded each other. A circle of white light swung on to them and illuminated the bizarre scene. The destroyer had moved in closer. Marines lined the deck watching. A boat was being lowered from the stern.

Suddenly, screaming and shooting broke the silence. The boat containing a dozen or so men was overturned, the water around being threshed to a white foam. Giant crabs were aboard the destroyer, having circled it and climbed up the side away from the searchlights and the watchers. The big guns were useless under these circumstances. Rifles and pistols offered only a token resistance.

Those who were able scrambled down into the hold, shutting themselves in anywhere that offered the protection of a steel door. Others found their retreat cut off. Some died on deck. A few flung themselves into the water only to be seized immediately by the waiting pincers. The destroyer was totally surrounded by crabs, a manoeuvre effected so swiftly in the apparent crustacean retreat that one of the most modern warships ever to patrol the Pacific was caught totally defenceless. The commander went down fighting, bravely emptying his automatic pistol into the face of his attacker as he was held aloft in a massive nipper. His body was severed diagonally, and as the torn and bleeding halves were tossed to those that waited eagerly below, the fingers of his right hand still gripped the empty pistol.

The upper part of the beach was thronged with people. Those who had fled to the hills had returned. The locals had emerged from hiding. Everybody watched in silence. There was nothing to say. They saw the destroyer in silhouette against the horizon now that its searchlights were extinguished, the bows high in the air. It seemed to hang there, then slowly disappeared from view. The giant crabs' last act of destruction had been the most terrible of all. They had proved beyond all doubt their supremacy over Mankind both on land and sea. Harvey Logan watched the warship sink, and then turned back to look at the wounded crab. Its eyes were dull. The evil in it was gone. It was dead.

He leaped to his feet, and turned to face the crowd of people in front of the Royal Hayman Hotel

‘I got one,’ he yelled. ‘I got one of the bastards. The warship couldn't, but I did. Harvey Logan showed 'em a thing or two!’

Beyond the dead crab the suitcase containing in excess of twenty thousand pounds lay forgotten.

Troops were arriving shortly after daybreak, a stream of helicopters coming from Mackay and Prosperine and landing on the wide golden beach of Barbecue Bay. The water seemed an even deeper blue, shimmering in the bright sunlight, but nothing could remove the aura of wanton slaughter and destruction which hung over the island.

An hour later helicopters began conveying those guests who wished to leave back to the mainland. The evacuation was voluntary, and only a handful preferred to return. Most disasters have their followers, a macabre fan club of ghouls who delight secretly in the horrors of road, rail and air crashes. On Hayman Island there was more than enough to satisfy their cravings.

The soldiers began a dual operation of salvage work and additional defensive precautions. Divers retrieved from the sunken destroyer the intact bodies of those who had been fortunate enough to die whole by barring themselves in places where the crabs could not reach them. The death toll at sea was fourteen bodies recovered, and fifty-seven missing. There were no survivors. Neither were any mutilated bodies found. Like locusts, the killer crabs left nothing in their wake except a trail of destruction.

Shark netting was placed across the mouth of Barbecue Bay, an operation which took a party of men the whole of the following day to complete. Even they sensed the futility of their work, but at least it served its purpose in convincing the public that something was being done to protect them from the possibility of another invasion.

Some of the hotel rooms were still habitable. Marquees were erected at the rear to accommodate those who had elected to stay behind and whose rooms had been wrecked.

The loss of human life on land was considerably light. Nine marines, three hotel staff, and the man known as Captain Manton who had apparently chosen to jump from a second floor window rather than face the crabs.

Caroline du Brunner did not show any signs of outward grief when she heard the news of the demise of her latest lover. She did not even enquire into the details of how he had met his end. Nevertheless, she had her regrets, and as she lay in her room that night her probing sensitive fingers brought back vivid memories of Frank Burke. Her only sobbing was brought about by a lengthy orgasm, and then, partially satisfied, she fell asleep.

Marines were in evidence on the beach, day and night A party of them had been engaged in the removal of the single dead crab, transporting it on a heavy trailer to the damaged site of the shark patrol office for examination by Professor Clifford Davenport.

But none reported finding a suitcase containing a vast amount of money. Several times during the course of the day, the man with the goatee beard, who was continually claiming to have shot the crustacean, was requested to keep clear of the beach.

Harvey Logan returned to his hotel room and scanned the golden sands with his binoculars.

There was no sign of the case.

Clifford Davenport's first task was to have the shell of the dead crab broken open. Even he had not envisaged the enormity of his request as a group of soldiers attempted to carry this out. Finally, a small crane, from which was suspended a heavy iron block, with a steel chain used to gather momentum, succeeded in inflicting the first deep crack. An hour later the flesh was visible beneath this.

The split was widened with crowbars, the block and chain used again, and at last a portion of the shell came away. It took the men five hours to remove it totally.

‘If this could be used commercially,’ Davenport stooped and picked up a fragment of shell, ‘it would totally revolutionise armour plating. It would withstand practically any missile.’

A tall stoic-faced Army colonel nodded his agreement.

‘Look,’ Davenport was examining a deep wound beneath the creature's neck. That is its Achilles' Heel. Its one weak spot, about the size of a saucer, and a fluke shot found it. Here's the missile, flattened. Even that didn't go in more than about a foot.’

‘So we've got to hit 'em below the chin every time with a six-inch gun,’ the Colonel laughed humourlessly.

‘And not even a sign of those .500 bullets which that big game hunter was blazing at it,’ Davenport whistled. ‘No facial disfiguration. Nothing. Well, he can't claim this trophy. Bloody nuisance the feller is. Keeps claiming it's his and we've got no right to touch it.’

‘And he also keeps trying to get on the beach,’ the other said. ‘My men have turned him away at least a dozen times. A bloody crank.’

Davenport began to examine the creature.

‘A female,’ his voice was tense. ‘Full of eggs. Very close to spawning. Next full moon without a doubt. That's where the danger lies, Colonel. She's virtually ready to eject her eggs on to an outgoing tide. She's just one of many. The next generation of crabs has to be wiped out at all costs.’

‘And in the light of what we've just experienced,’ there was a slight hint of sarcasm in the soldier's voice, ‘how do you propose to accomplish that?’

‘First we've got to find 'em,’ Davenport grimaced. ‘After that we can think about how we're going to rid the world of 'em. Depends on where their breeding grounds are. If it's far enough away from civilisation we could probably use bombs. There are scores of small unnamed, uninhabited islands in this area. Well, mangrove swamps are the ideal places to find spawning crabs of any size. I want to scour the area by helicopter. I know it'll be like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack, but we could just be lucky. Then, when the moon is full, these monsters will congregate there to spawn. Males as well. The females won't spawn without 'em. What we're hoping for is to find the whole bloody lot of 'em confined in one area. Then we'll blast 'em. I'll get Shannon to put his pilot, Riordan, at my disposal. We'll take Klin with us. He knows these waters better than anyone around here. Come to think of it, I haven't seen him these last few hours. Not since we found the dead crab.’

‘Maybe he's catching up on some sleep.’ The Colonel turned his attention back to the remains of the giant crab and wrinkled his nose at the sour odour which came from it.

‘Possibly he's trying to repair some of the damage to his lodge,’ Cliff Davenport said as he bent over the crustacean and began cutting into it with a sharp knife. ‘Keep me posted on troop movements, Colonel. And start making arrangements to have some aircraft standing by with some heavy stuff on board. And you might just offer up a small prayer that we'll need 'em. Otherwise we're going to have a war on our hands that'll make the last two seem like a field exercise by comparison!’

Chapter 8

Klin was not catching up on lost sleep. In fact, sleep was the least important thing on his mind.

He had been amongst the first to venture on to the beach along with Davenport, Shannon, Corder and a crowd of locals who had overcome their fear and were intent on viewing the slain crustacean at close quarters. Harvey Logan was still proclaiming his achievement in a loud voice, standing with one foot on the creature, cradling his heavy big game gun in the crook of an arm.

The darkness had surged back once the destroyer's searchlights had been extinguished, and Klin cursed under his breath as his foot caught against a rectangular object and he lost his balance. He picked himself up, but the others had hurried on without him. He was alone. He stared down at the cause of his fall.

He wondered how the suitcase had come to be there. It wasn't locked, and he lifted the lid. It took him about five seconds to realise that the bundles inside were currency. It did not matter what kind or how small the denominations. A suitcaseful of any kind of banknotes had to be worth an awful lot of money!

He closed the lid again and secured the catches. His mind was in a whirl. Years of fishing and carefully banking all his money could never have brought him anything like this.

He knelt there on the sand listening to the chaos all around him. Nobody heeded him. A crowd was gathered around the dead crab, and above the noise he could hear Harvey Logan's nasal tones.

Klin picked up the case and began to walk away with it, taking a course to the right of the hotel in the direction of his own lodge. He was well aware that his home had been wrecked by the crabs, but that no longer concerned him. He needed to be alone, away from everybody and everything for a short time. Just long enough to count the money and make a few decisions.

The one half of Klin's lodge, the area which had comprised the bedroom, was a heap of rubble. The living room still stood. The interior had been wrecked, but the stout brickwork had held. Klin stepped inside and dragged the damaged door as far into position as the broken lintel would allow. He found a candle and lit it, and by its dim, eerie glow he tipped the banknotes out on to the floor.

Ten minutes later he estimated that his find was worth around twenty thousand pounds, give or take a hundred or two. There was no time for a detailed check. He had no idea to whom it belonged. He did not care, but he was determined not to part company with it.

A safe hiding place presented problems. His front door would not even lock. The local children would doubtlessly play inside during his absence. There was also the possibility of looters. They were to be found at the scene of every catastrophe.

Dawn was just breaking when Klin left the house, walking quickly towards a belt of stunted pines some thirty yards away. He carried both the suitcase and a rusty spade, the handle of which had long since rotted. It would serve its purpose, though, for the ground was soft and sandy.

Ten minutes later he had filled the hole in, carefully scraping pine needles over the fresh earth in an attempt to disguise his excavations.

He returned to the remains of his house, found some coffee, and a mug which had somehow survived the crustacean vandalism, and sat looking across the bay as he sipped the beverage. At that moment the crabs played a very small part in his life. In a way he had them to thank for this unexpected fortune which he had literally stumbled upon.

Crabs or no crabs, he decided, it was time he left Hayman Island. If only they hadn't wrecked his boat. Maybe he could get out on one of the evacuation helicopters. A suitcase wouldn't attract attention. All the passengers would be carrying luggage.

His cycle of thinking came back to Caroline du Brunner. He laughed softly to himself. No longer would it be a case of the little nympho rich girl summoning a local fisherman to satisfy her lust. His find made them equal.

Klin drained the dregs from his mug, tossed it across the room where it shattered into a pile of fragments, then tugged hard at the door until it yielded, opening enough for him to squeeze through. The shower of plaster and mortar on his head went unnoticed.

He headed in the direction of the hotel. The peaceful existence which he had known for years had gone. An army of oversize crabs and a beautiful woman had shattered it all for him.

The state of crisis stimulated, rather than subdued, life at the Royal Hayman Hotel. Those who had long hitherto resigned themselves to an existence of boredom, made tolerable by an accumulation of wealth, relished the turn of events with zest. Only those who had remained behind to meet the foe had perished. There would be ample warning in the event of the crabs returning, and flight to the hills ensured safety. Few elected to return to the mainland by helicopter.

The wrecked rooms were sealed off, the gory proof of the crustaceans' hatred of mankind hidden from the eyes of the squeamish. A temporary trestle bar was soon operating at the rear of the building, and those whose quarters were uninhabitable found the partitioned quarters in the marquee acceptable. It was luxury camping, a feeling of living rough yet able to take advantage of the fine service which the hotel provided at the same time.

Within a matter of hours life at the Royal Hayman had taken on a new concept.

Caroline du Brunner's room had suffered no damage apart from a displacement of the doorposts by a crab that had considered entering, found it to be unoccupied, and had shambled on in the wake of its companions in search of human prey.

She barricaded the door to the best of her ability by jamming a chair beneath the handle, and then retired to bed, a couple of hours or so before dawn. Much of the remaining nocturnal time had been taken up in solo delight with the naked body of Frank Burke a figment of her fantasies.

She fell into a deep sleep after she had attained fulfilment of her desires, and did not even hear the door being forced open and then closed again.

Klin sat on the edge of the bed looking at her for some time. She had not even bothered to pull the sheets up over her nakedness, and the fingers of her right hand still rested between her smooth white thighs.

The hand which was gently caressing her breasts brought her to a state of full wakefulness in easy stages. She murmured ‘Frank’ several times, even guided the male fingers down to her lower regions, and only after they had begun to stimulate her did realisation intervene.

‘Klin!’ it was a cry of dismay, but as she tried to raise herself up she was pushed firmly back. ‘I thought I told you -’

He chuckled, and she saw that he was completely naked, his erection resting against the outside of her thighs as he lay full length beside her. ‘There's a crab down on the shore. I expect they'll be chopping it up soon. I'll bring you a piece of shell as a souvenir.’

‘Harvey Logan shot it. At least that's what he was busy telling everybody.’

‘I wouldn't know.’ Klin spread his hand to open her thighs wider, noting with some degree of satisfaction that she did not resist him. ‘Maybe he did and maybe he didn't Personally, I couldn't care less.’

‘Why did you come back, Klin?’

‘Why d'you think? You, and ... I gotta surprise for you.’

She reached down and fondled him, her fingers demonstrating their expertise even on a morning following a night which had seen one of the most terrifying battles in history. ‘Now that's what I call a real surprise, Klin.’

‘That ain't all,’ he kissed her. ‘I got something to tell you.’

She looked at him steadily with hardly a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. Men always had something to tell her. Promises, boasts, hints of possible divorce proceedings, anything which justified half an hour in between her thighs. Yet, Klin wasn't that kind. He didn't need to be. He got what he wanted because he was Klin.

‘I've been thinking over what you said,’ his confidence waned a little. He wasn't used to having to rely upon words. ‘About … well … you did mention marriage.’

‘Did I?’ her eyebrows raised, ‘can't say I remember ...’

‘You did!’ his eyes blazed, and he had to hold himself in check. ‘Just a suggestion. Food for thought. But you said it.’

‘I was maybe feeling lonely at the time,’ she spread herself even wider, ‘but you don't have to mortgage yourself to get it with me, Klin. You should know that by now.’

The smooth hussy, he thought, and hated her for it. However, his throbbing arousement urged him not to argue.

‘I got some money,’ he said. ‘I ain't just the poor fisherman with the big cock any longer.’

‘Oh!’ she feigned surprise. ‘You don't think I screw for money, surely?’

‘It ain't that,’ his jaw hardened, and the finger which was exploring her thrust fiercely. ‘But I guess it makes us … well, kinda more equal.’

‘And how did you manage to acquire considerable wealth since the last time we saw each other?’ She was taunting him, calling him a liar. ‘Come off it, Klin, I need a man right now, and you don't have to fabricate yarns.’

‘Just listen, and cut out the funny stuff,’ his anger was rising, and she noted the two bloodless patches below his cheekbones. ‘I can take you and show you. Twenty thousand pounds in Australian and English banknotes.’

‘All right,’ she hoped her expression of belief looked convincing. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

‘I thought maybe we could go away together,’ he said. ‘Forget this island, the crabs, everything ...’

He was looking for an instant answer. She realised it would be exceedingly foolish to show disbelief again. Or to reply in the negative. Mostly because she needed that which he had to offer, that which was stabbing against her, demanding. And, also, she had heard that at times this man was capable of violence.

‘Sounds tempting,’ she closed her eyes and tried to appear enthusiastic. ‘Just you and me, Klin.’

‘Just you and me,’ he repeated, and slid into her.

It was a long time before they finally uncoupled.

‘About this money,’ she groped on the table beside the bed for some tissues. ‘You ain't kidding?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I got it’

‘Where?’

‘Not far away. I could take you to it right now.’

‘Later,’ she tossed a ball of damp tissues at the waste bin and missed. ‘Don't let's rush things, Klin.’

‘You'll come away with me?’

‘Sure. But not at a minute's notice. A few days, maybe. Perhaps a week. Where'd you find this money?’

‘Lying around without an owner.’

A thoughtful smile crossed her features. She had just remembered something Frank Burke had said. If both he and Klin had been speaking the truth then it was unlikely that there were two stashes of twenty grand lying around on Hayman Island without a legitimate owner. And Frank Burke had jumped and killed himself to escape the giant crabs.

Her fingers went back down to Klin, checking the limpness just in time. She felt it grow gradually under her touch. He laughed softly, and rolled back in between her thighs.

‘Come on, Klin,’ she kissed him, ‘nice and steady now. Take your time so we can make it last. We've got all day. We can talk about you and me, and what we're gonna do when we leave here. You sure were lucky coming upon a stash like that. I'll bet you've hidden it someplace where nobody would ever think of looking.’

‘

‘Where the hell've you been until now, Klin?’ Clifford Davenport looked up from where he was kneeling amidst the scattered debris of crab shell.

‘Nobody owns me,’ Klin drawled arrogantly. ‘I come and go as I please. Professor. I had things to do, like cleanin' up my lodge.’

‘You weren't there when I looked in about a couple of hours ago,’ Shannon snapped, leaning on a heavy pickaxe.

‘Look,’ Klin raised a finger, stabbing it menacingly at Davenport, Shannon, Corder and Riordan who had just walked across from the helicopter. ‘I ain't answerable to anybody, and I ain't takin' no …’

‘Aright, alright,’ Cliff Davenport spoke quickly, smiling as he did so. ‘Nobody's trying to order you about, Klin. It's simply that we needed you because you're the best man for the job we've got in mind.’

‘Oh.’ Klin relaxed visibly. ‘And what's that, Professor?’

‘We've got to search these islands for a mangrove swamp,’ Davenport replied. ‘There might be a dozen. There might be two or three, or even none at all. It's our one chance of locating these monster crabs when they come ashore to spawn.’

‘Best of luck to you,’ Klin said. ‘I could be leavin' the island any day. For good.’

Davenport and Shannon glanced at each other.

Shannon said, ‘Oh? I never reckoned on Klin leaving Hayman.’

‘Just shows how wrong you can be,’ the fisherman stooped, picked up a fragment of broken shell, and examined it. ‘Like steel plating, ain't it?’

‘We could use you, Klin,’ Shannon went on. ‘You know these waters better than either me or Riordan.’

‘I said I'd probably be leavin'.’

‘You said “probably”,’ Davenport reminded him. ‘But until you do we'd be more than grateful if you'd give us a hand. We'll be going out daily by helicopter. Shannon, Riordan, myself. It'd make our task a lot easier if you came along with us.’

Klin thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his shorts and stared at the ground, idly making patterns in the soil with the toe of his plimsoll. He was thinking of Caroline du Brunner. She had said that she would go with him in a few days. Maybe he ought not to have told her so much about the money. But he had to prove to her that he wasn't lying. He wondered whether he ought to dig the case up and bury it somewhere else. He decided against it. She was loaded herself. The only difference it made was that the gap between them was narrowed. She didn't need his money.

‘Well?’ Shannon asked.

‘OK,’ Klin nodded to Davenport. ‘I'll go along with you. But only on a day-to-day basis. If I get called away meantime then you'll have to manage on your own.’

‘Fair enough.’ Clifford Davenport's sigh of relief did not go unnoticed. ‘We start first thing tomorrow morning. I'd say at the most we've got a clear week before we really have to start worrying.’

The three of them watched as Klin sauntered away in the direction of his demolished home.

‘Now what the hell's got into him?’ Shannon muttered. ‘He's part of the place. Been around as long as I can remember. Now, just when things are gettin' hot he starts opting out. You don't reckon he's gone yeller, do you?’

‘No,’ Davenport turned back to his examination of the dissected crab. ‘Only two things I know change a man like that. One's the moon. The other's a woman.’ He banged a piece of crab with a small hammer. ‘This feller here is controlled by the moon phases. Somehow I don't think that's friend Klin's trouble!’

Riordan maintained a steady fifty feet once they were clear of Barbecue Bay. He could have dropped to thirty, but he didn't. Every time he took the helicopter over the water he couldn't get Johnson's disappearance off his mind. OK, so it'd been engine trouble. It could happen to anybody. Even himself. All the same, the more distance he kept between the helicopter and any crabs which might be lurking down below, the better he felt. He didn't enjoy flying at all these days.

‘Try that one,’ Davenport leaned forward and pointed in the direction of a tiny dot which had appeared on the horizon to their left.

Riordan nodded to show that he had heard. Shannon was gazing through a pair of binoculars. Klin merely shifted to a more comfortable position.

The island gradually became larger, starkly outlined against the brilliant blue of the water around it, the whiteness of the breakers visible from half a mile away as they pounded relentlessly on its shores.

A tension mounted within the helicopter, rising to a peak as hopes and fears mingled, then died away.

Nothing. The sixth that day. Just a large coral cay, totally devoid of life in any form.

‘Hopeless,’ Shannon muttered. ‘We ain't gonna find 'em, and the sooner we wake up to that fact the better. Even submarines are no good for crab hunting. That much was proved the other night.’

‘This is the first day,’ Davenport reminded him. ‘We'll draw a lot of blanks before we find what we're looking for.’

‘Better be gettin' back,’ Riordan was already putting the machine into a half-circle. ‘We can't risk running outta fuel over these waters.’

The journey back to Hayman Island was completed in silence. Klin hoped that the others hadn't noticed his erection as his thoughts turned to Caroline du Brunner. That night he would spend in her bed. All night. It was about the only civilised sleeping place which he could think of. He was grateful that Davenport and Corder would be occupying partitions in the marquee at the rear. The less they knew about his private life, the better. Suddenly Hayman Island had become a very small place.

Shannon and Riordan would be on standby at the army headquarters further down the road. Both of them were fervently hoping that they would not be needed. Davenport had insisted that the crabs would not appear again before the next full moon.

Shannon recalled that the professor had already been proved wrong once on this assumption. He hoped that this time Davenport was right.

The large lounge bar of the Royal Hayman Hotel still bore evidence of the crustacean attack. There was no glass in any of the windows, and much of the furniture was missing. A pile of broken wood on the smashed verandah signified the fate of a dozen or so tables and a score of chairs.

Many of the guests were forced to stand in the bar area with their drinks. Davenport and Corder had been fortunate in securing a stool apiece.

‘My editor says things have gone too quiet,’ Corder sipped his third whisky. ‘He says if nothing happens before long the public will forget the whole thing. That's the trouble with it happening in a remote place like this. Now if it'd been Bondi Beach or Sydney harbour -’

‘Don't wish it on 'em,’ Davenport did not smile. ‘It could well be. Just anywhere. New York, Cape Town, any place you care to mention. We don't know how many of these crabs exist They've had four years to breed since the Welsh disasters. The effects could be even more far reaching than you imagine. They could put every seaport in the world out of business. Imagine continents with the populations confined inland. No sea trade whatsoever. It doesn't bear thinking about.’ He paused. ‘I see Caroline du Brunner hasn't elected to return to the mainland.’

Corder followed his companion's gaze. He saw the millionairess clad in an evening dress which would have cost him a month's pay. Her jewellery would have swallowed up a year's salary.

‘That's that big game hunter guy she's talking to,’ the reporter muttered. ‘The feller who claims to have shot that crab.’

‘Well, he didn't,’ Davenport snapped. ‘A lucky shot from the destroyer clobbered it. He's getting on my nerves fast. If he comes poking around tomorrow. I'll have the army throw him out.’

‘And judging by the size of him you'll need 'em.’

‘All piss and wind,’ the professor laughed. ‘He's the least of my worries.’

‘You really excelled yourself, Harvey.’ Caroline du Brunner smiled coyly up at her companion. ‘Fancy you managing to shoot one of those brutes when the armed forces couldn't bag one between the lot of them.’

‘The secret is getting close to 'em.’ Harvey Logan drew himself up to his full height. ‘Damned dangerous. But you don't get anything in this life unless you're prepared to take a chance.’

‘One of the guests here was killed when the crabs attacked,’ she remarked casually. ‘I only met him once. Seemed a very nice feller. We were chatting in this very bar only a few hours earlier. Captain Manton. That was his name. Scarred features.’

Harvey Logan felt his pulses quicken and his breathing became very shallow. Apart from a slight draining of the colour in his cheeks he gave no outward sign of the discomfort he felt. He told himself that he had no reason to feel uneasy. Nobody could possibly know. Everybody had fled the hotel when he had hit the man known as Captain Manton and dragged him into that bedroom.

‘I feel so sorry for him,’ she went on. ‘He was such a nice guy. The sort who travelled around the world with all his wordly goods in a suitcase.’

Logan stiffened. How much did she know or was she simply snooping?

‘I never met him,’ he breathed, and he was sure that his heart was pounding louder than the orchestra which had just begun to play.

‘I'd better be turning in,’ she refused the offer of another drink and moved towards the exit. ‘See you around, Harvey.’

His eyes narrowed as he watched her go. Somebody had found that suitcase on the beach. And Harvey Logan meant to recover it at the first opportunity. If Caroline du Brunner had taken it then it would give him great satisfaction to retrieve it from her. He had a score to settle with her. She had rejected him once. Revenge would be sweet, indeed.

Chapter 9

It was apparent to Caroline du Brunner that nobody had seen Frank Burke leaving the hotel with his suitcase. She had asked around the regulars. Maybe his death had been an accident after all. Not that she really cared. It was just that she felt uncomfortable about the possibility of Klin being a murderer. Not that she had any intention of leaving Hayman Island with him, anyway. The thought of sharing a bed with a cold-blooded killer made her nervous. She wondered if the money really was hidden amongst the pine trees behind the remains of his lodge. She made up her mind to take a look at the earliest opportunity.

Klin was lying on the bed when she entered her room. He was fully aroused, the suddenness of her appearance causing him to snatch his hands away with a grunt of embarrassment and surprise like a boarding school adolescent at the unexpected approach of the matron.

‘Randy aren't you, lover boy?’ she sat on the bed with her back to him, gathering up her hair so that he could reach the zip of her long evening gown.

‘It's always the case when you're around,’ he laughed.

‘No luck today?’

‘No. And I reckon it'll be the same right up until the time of the full moon. But, we won't be around here then, will we?’

‘No,’ she tried to sound convincing. ‘We'll be far away by then. I take it you're going out with them again tomorrow?’

‘Probably,’ he watched her stand up and step out of the dress. ‘Unless you think there's a chance we might be leaving tomorrow.’

‘It'll be a day or two yet.’ She removed her bra, then slid her silk pants down, easing her thighs provocatively apart as she did so. ‘There's no hurry. We've got the rest of our lives in front of us. What's a day or two?’

He watched, fascinated, almost hypnotised by the perfection of her body, the ease with which she moved as she crouched astride him, and then slowly lowered herself down on to him.

Caroline du Brunner watched through half-closed eyelids as Klin eased himself out of bed and began to dress. She noticed that he had awoken with an erection. It excited her. Her instincts urged her to lure him back to the warmth of her embraces. Her logic told her to let him go. The “crab patrol” would be leaving in less than an hour. It would have been all too easy to have persuaded Klin to let it go without him. It would also have been physically pleasurable for her. But it would not have suited her plans.

He glanced back at her as he removed the chair from beneath the door handle, but her eyes were closed. Her naked breasts rose and fell rhythmically as though she slept. She hoped that her rapidly stiffening nipples would not arouse his suspicions. Apparently they did not, and she listened with relief to his footsteps receding down the corridor.

She crossed to the window, standing well back so that there was no chance of her being observed from above.

Klin emerged from the main entrance, picked his way carefully through the wreckage of the verandah, and turned left along the beach road.

She continued to watch from the window long after he was out of sight. The beauty of Barbecue Bay with the early morning sunlight dancing on the rich blueness meant nothing to her. She had more important matters on her mind.

She placed a chair close to the foot of the bed, seated herself on it, and lit a cigarette. She could be in for a long wait, but she knew that she had to be sure before she made a move. A few marines were moving about down below, the day watch relieving their colleagues. Apart from them it appeared that everybody else still slept.

It was almost an hour later that her ears picked up the faint sound for which she had been listening, a steady drone becoming louder all the time. She smiled with a mixture of satisfaction and relief as she saw the helicopter enter her field of vision, cross the line of palms, and gain height once it reached the bay. Five minutes later it was lost to sight, and the early morning stillness returned to Hayman Island. She began to dress.

One of the marines turned and stared as Caroline du Brunner walked out of the hotel, her tight-fitting blouse and jeans leaving little to the imagination.

‘Mornin', miss.’ he grinned, and glanced cheekily at his watch. ‘Early to bed and all that, eh. Mind them crabs.’

‘No, you mind them,’ she retorted coldly. ‘It's your job.’

He continued to stare after her, resentment in his expression. Another movement attracted his attention a few minutes later as a man came out of the hotel doorway. The marine began to stroll away in the opposite direction. He decided that he did not like Hayman Island after all. It was a decidedly unfriendly place, and he hadn't even met up with the giant crabs yet. They could have it for all he cared.

Caroline du Brunner skirted the ruin that had once been Klin's lodge. If any of the neighbouring locals were up and about she did not want them to see her. The tall pines rose starkly against the blue of the sky, and she smiled to herself. This was the place. Her lover had described where and how he had hidden the money. Her pulses raced at the thought. There was an awful lot a girl could do with twenty thousand pounds. No more deception. No longer would the threat of having to move on at a moment's notice hang over her. The “Caroline du Brunner” trick was wearing a bit thin now, she decided. Outplayed. They had rumbled her in Monte Carlo, but she had got out just in time. The FBI had long ago circulated her description to Interpol. The numbers of the stolen cheques had been widely publicised. She laughed softly to herself at the memory of that faded newspaper cutting she'd read only last month. The real Caroline du Brunner had been detained for questioning in New York. Only someone who knew either of them intimately could tell them apart; “More alike than identical twins” the paper had said.

No, she reflected, if wouldn't work again. In some ways it was a pity. She had enjoyed the glamour, the men, the bedlife. Still, Frank Burke’s loot would more than compensate her for having to dye her hair blonde and wear glasses again. Just plain Susie Thompson, ex-model. Another name. Another place. She would fade into obscurity.

It was gloomy beneath the trees, the lack of undergrowth proof that the sunlight rarely filtered down through the dark green foliage. Nevertheless, the absence of weeds made her task that much easier.

She dropped on to her hands and knees and began combing through the thick carpet of pine needles with her long fingernails. Ants scurried away at this sudden intrusion of their privacy, and she shuddered. She hated ants.

It took her well over half an hour to find the place she sought, an uneven square of damp earth that had only partially dried out. She wished that she had a spade, but to have asked for one at the hotel would have aroused suspicion. She grimaced and started to claw the soil away with her bare hands, working frantically at first in the manner of a hungry dog which has just remembered the hiding place of an old bone, then tiring quickly as her muscles objected to this unaccustomed labour.

It was some time before her fingertips finally scraped on leather. She gave a grunt of excitement, and pawed away the remaining earth until the black oblong outline of the suitcase was visible. Klin had buried it deeper than she had expected.

Frantically she sought a grip and pulled it clear of the excavations, her broken and torn fingernails tearing at the catches. The clasps clicked open with surprising ease and she threw the lid back, kneeling and rubbing her hands together, paying avaricious homage to the contents. It was true. It was all there. Bundles and bundles of it. A fortune, the proceeds of an eight-year-old bank raid.

She picked up several of the piles of banded notes, weighing them in her hands, still hardly able to believe that she had succeeded in her quest.

Suddenly she tensed, her quivering body becoming immobile. She had neither heard nor seen anything, but some strange sense warned her that she was not alone. Every nerve in her shapely body tautened, and she found that she was momentarily unable to turn her head. The money fell from her grasp, thudding softly back into the case. And only when the man moved around in front of her was she able to see him.

‘Harvey!’ she whispered. ‘Harvey Logan!’

‘Well, well,’ the big game hunter towered over her, clad in the crumpled white cotton suit which he had been wearing on the previous evening, his hair awry, eyes red-rimmed, evidence that he had not slept during the nocturnal hours. ‘It was considerate of you to get up so early and show me where you had hidden my money.’

‘I don't know what you're talking about,’ she struggled to regain the self-control that had been a major factor in convincing everybody that she was the millionairess from Texas. ‘It isn't your money, and how dare you follow me.’

‘Correction,’ he said. ‘It is mine. It was given to me by a certain guy before he jumped out of his bedroom window, preferring to break his neck rather than be torn limb from limb by the crabs.’

‘You killed him!’ she hissed. ‘You're a murderer.’ Subconsciously she began apologising to Kiln. If only he had been here now. But he wasn't. She was alone in the pine wood with Harvey Logan, out of earshot of the lodges, and this man had the traits of the character which he had so carefully cultivated. He was a killer, and she knew that he would not confine his blood lust solely to the beasts of the wild.

‘Look,’ she glanced about her desperately, ‘there's no need for us to quarrel. We both know that we have no claim on this cash. So let's split it, and forget that we ever found it.’

‘You're in no position to make deals,’ his eyes narrowed. ‘And neither can you go to the law without incriminating yourself. I don't know how that feller got this money, but it's a certainty that it wasn't by legitimate means. So, that being the case, I'll take it back.’

A sudden desperation seized the girl who for so long had called herself Caroline du Brunner. She had a fortune within her reach, and she was not going to surrender it to Harvey Logan or anybody else. Without it she was finished. She could not return to modelling. Her features would be compared with those of the woman she had impersonated, and her arrest would follow. The only other alternative was prostitution. And she would not be able to choose her lovers with the care to which she had become accustomed in recent months.

She shrugged her shoulders in apparent resignation and closed the lid of the suitcase, snapping the catches shut as she did so.

‘All right,’ she muttered, and rose to her feet, lifting the case with her. It was heavy, but not as heavy as she had anticipated. Cumbersome, certainly, but she knew that she could run with it.

Her sudden movement deceived the man who was already extending a hand to take the case from her. She turned and leaped in the same movement, carrying herself beyond his reach, then breaking into a run as her feet touched the ground. Thirty yards and she would be out of the trees, and on open ground behind the row of wrecked lodges. He would not dare to touch her there.

She heard his heavy-booted feet pounding in her wake. She raced on. A dozen yards to go at the most. She would make it. Her quick thinking had beaten him.

She was aware that her pursuer had stopped. The footsteps had ceased. He had given up the chase. She half-paused but resisted the impulse to turn and look back. All she wanted was to return to the hotel, check out, and get aboard the next helicopter to Mackay.

She surged forward. Then, in mid-stride, an agonising blow struck her on the base of the neck. The gloom of the pine wood turned to blackness, she was aware of a sensation of falling, but had no recollection of actually hitting the ground.

Harvey Logan stared down at the huddled form of the girl. She lay face downwards, her head twisted at an unnatural angle. The beauty of her neck was marred by a large jagged wound. His aim with the chunk of rock had been unerring. He was pleased. It always delighted him to fell his quarry in full flight.

He picked up the suitcase which lay beside her. He knew that she was dead. That was unfortunate, but perhaps it was best. He regretted her passing, but whilst she was alive she presented problems.

He contemplated hiding the body, but decided against it. There was not sufficient undergrowth to conceal a corpse, and to bury it he needed a spade ... and time. He didn't have either. Once they discovered the dead girl there would be a warrant issued for his arrest. The marine had seen him leave the hotel. It wouldn't take the cops long to work out what had happened. The sooner he was on the mainland, the better.

As Harvey Logan checked out he had only one regret. He had no souvenir, not even a piece of chipped shell to remind him of that crab. He wondered if there was any chance of obtaining a trophy of some sort before he left. It meant almost as much to him as the contents of that suitcase.

‘Best if we turn back soon,’ Riordan yelled above the noise of the helicopter’s engine. ‘We're on the outward limit now. Can't risk cutting it too fine.’

‘OK.’ Davenport glanced up from the detailed nautical chart which was spread across his knees. ‘Nine islands, two with some mangroves but not enough, and we're back where we started. Guess we'd better hope for better luck tomorrow.’

‘Hold on.’ Klin lowered his binoculars and pointed in a westerly direction, ‘there's something out there. Might be just a cay. Could be an island. Worth taking a look, I reckon -’

‘Go in closer.’ Shannon ordered the pilot.

Riordan checked a retort, and changed direction. They were cutting it too fine for his liking. A gallon of fuel could mean the difference between landing safely back at base or coming down in Barbecue Bay. Nevertheless, he obeyed.

‘It's big,’ Davenport breathed, watching the island loom larger as they neared it. ‘And ... by God, yes, there are mangroves on it. A whole swamp of 'em!’

They looked down on the island from a height of seventy feet. It was approximately five-hundred acres in size, roughly circular, its shores bounded by coral reefs that would test the skill of any seaman attempting to land. The swamp was spread over most of it, only occasional patches of water visible, the majority hidden beneath a tangle of thick foliage.

‘I remember this island,’ Klin turned to Davenport. ‘Came out here about ten years ago. I decided against landing. Too dangerous. But I don't remember a mangrove swamp.’

‘One can grow up in a few years,’ the professor replied. ‘Strange growth this mangrove stuff. The seedlings sometimes drift for hundreds of miles and are capable of remaining alive for a year or more. Often they grow additional roots and top growth whilst still afloat. In due course they become washed up somewhere, like this island below us. They take root, and spread if the terrain is suitable. So, within a year or two you've got a mangrove forest growing on a hitherto barren stretch.’

Riordan circled lower, hovering. The island looked dark and forbidding now that they were only twenty feet or so above the tops of the closely interwoven mangrove trees. It was impossible to see beneath the foliage.

‘We're using up juice fast.’ Riordan shouted. He did not like the look of the place at all. Secretly he hoped that Shannon or Davenport would give the order to return to base.

‘Take her down.’ Davenport instructed.

‘Where?’ There was an expression of alarm on the pilot's face. ‘There's no break in that tangle.’

‘The shore,’ the professor snapped. ‘There's plenty of hard flat coral there.’

‘The tide …’

‘It's in now. It won't be rising any further. Anyway, we probably won't be more than an hour or two.’

Slowly the helicopter moved on, circling the perimeter, then descending on to a level stretch of coral. The engine died away, the only sounds the whirring vanes losing momentum, and the crashing of the breakers on the reefs.

‘Well, this is it,’ Cliff Davenport turned to the others and there was a look of excitement on his face. Tension. Hope. It was the most likely looking place which they had found since their search began.

‘Where do we go from here?’ Shannon asked. He made no move to open the door, and his reluctance was obvious.

‘Well, we won't learn anything just by sitting here.’ The professor reached across and grasped the door handle. ‘We've got to go and take a look around in this mangrove jungle. Riordan can stay here with the machine. It shouldn't take us all that long to discover whether or not the crabs are using this place. We'd better take the rifles. And put those rubber boots on we brought along. This island could be crawling with all kinds of poisonous reptiles.’

The three of them descended and donned their protective footwear. Riordan handed the rifles down to them. He was relieved that he had not been requested to accompany them.

‘Give us a couple of hours,’ Davenport said. ‘If we're not back by then, radio headquarters and give our position. Don't leave the helicopter at any cost.’

‘You bet I won't,’ the pilot murmured beneath his breath, and settled back to watch his colleagues heading towards the dark-green, seemingly impenetrable wall.

He closed the door. He felt safer that way.

The other two were apparently content for Cliff Davenport to lead the way. Even Klin hung back. None of them spoke.

They entered the forest by a narrow waterway, following its brackish course; merging branches shutting out most of the sunlight and forming a canopy above their heads.

The water was no deeper than a few inches, the bottom of the channel thick mud and coral. Davenport broke off a stick and used it to test the murky depths in front of him. He was taking no chances of stepping into a deep hole. In places it was slippery. Thick slime clung to their boots.

They peered into the gloomy depths of the forest on either side as they walked. Most of the time they could see no further than a few yards, and in places the swamp water was a dark- red colour.

‘Caused by tannic acid from the mangroves,’ Davenport whispered. The others nodded, but did not reply. This place had an awesome atmosphere like some huge place of worship where one trod softly and spoke only in whispered tones.

Their progress was slow. They examined the mud on either side of the stream, searching for signs that would betray the presence of giant crabs. But there were no huge claw marks. Klin sighed, decided that they were wasting their time, and his thoughts returned to Caroline du Brunner. Yet there was no stirring in his loins as he visualised her naked body trembling with passion. Mangrove swamps were not conducive to erotic fantasies.

‘What's that?’ Shannon pulled up abruptly, causing Klin to bump into him.

They stood listening. Far away they could hear the roar of the sea. But the swamp was no longer a silent place of the dead. A faint clicking sound came to their ears. Click, click, click.

Davenport tensed, then relaxed almost at once.

‘It's only the clicking of the shells of bivalves,’ he said. ‘Listen. That rustling. That's small crabs scurrying away. That haunting cry. It's a limpkin. We can't be far off the heart of the island. This is where everything lives and breeds, a sanctuary within a sanctuary. Sound is muffled in a place like this. The foliage blankets it. Could well be that we're the first human beings ever to penetrate this far. Nobody would have cause to come here, anyway.’

They continued slowly on their way, more cautiously now. The channel was becoming wider, and upon rounding a sharp bend they saw that it terminated in a large pool. The water here was a reddish-brown, and the branches overhead were so thick that hardly any sunlight at all filtered down.

‘God, what a foul stinking place,’ Shannon coughed and spat. ‘Like a bloody sewer.’

‘This channel continues on the other side of the pool,’ Davenport pointed. ‘We'd best clamber ashore and make our way round it. We don't know how deep the water is.’

‘Is there any point in going on?’ Shannon asked. ‘We've come one hell of a way, and we've not seen a sign of these monsters. If you ask me we're wasting our time.’

‘We might as well see where that channel leads,’ Davenport was already pulling himself up out of the water. And if -’

Click. Click. Clickety-click.

The sound was much louder this time. They crouched beneath an overhanging tree on the muddy bank. The professor noticed some coon oysters clinging to the roots, at first glance seeming to be part of the tree growth itself. There were many things that the botanist would have liked to pause and study, but he merely gave them a passing glance. He raised a warning finger. No ordinary crustacean could make a noise of such magnitude. Branches were being broken off, and sucking, squelching sounds denoted mangrove trees being torn from the mud by their roots.

‘Get down,’ Davenport hissed. ‘It's coming this way!’

They crouched on the soft ground beneath the tree, eyes trained on the channel on the opposite side of the large pool.

Minutes later they saw the huge crab. The waterway was too narrow to accommodate its passage. Its pincers were being used to clear the impeding undergrowth on either side, ripping and slashing a path ahead of it.

‘Get back, get back!’ Davenport hissed. ‘As far into the forest as you can, and don't let it see you. Quickly. It's following this waterway back to the sea.’

They stumbled back into the swamp, heedless of pools of foul water which came up to their thighs, filling their boots. Only when they had covered fifteen or twenty yards did Professor Clifford Davenport call a halt.

The crab was parallel to them now, and although it was partially screened from them they had no difficulty in following its passage. It kept to the waterway. The tree under which they had crouched only minutes earlier was uprooted and flung to one side, and the sluggish current was whipped into a series of waves which overflowed the banks on either side. The crab did not pause once. There was a definite urgency about its movements, a sinister purposefulness, almost a desperation to return to the sea.

Shannon wiped his sweating face with the back of his hand.

‘It might've come from hell itself,’ he grunted. ‘Jeez, what a size. It must be twice as big as that one we've been carvin' up, Professor.’

‘Yes.’ Davenport's mouth was dry. ‘And that's what worries me most. Those Welsh crabs had a gigantic leader. We nicknamed it “King Crab”. In the final battle we showered it with paraquat, and it could barely make it back to the sea. I'd swear it was a goner. But that monster we've just seen is the living image of it. I'd even go as far as to say that its evil features are identical. But it can't be unless ...’

‘Unless what?’

‘Unless the original big bastard wasn't a male at all! It's the only logical solution. A queen crab, just like a hive of bees has a queen. When one dies, another takes its place. Ants are another example. The leaders are born with a super-intelligence, more cunning than humans. Ants are at a disadvantage on account of their size, but these monsters don't have that drawback. They've got the lot, size, cunning, determination.’

‘But there were no signs of it along the waterway,’ Klin added. ‘It had to force its way along. We'd've seen ...’

‘There are probably hundreds of different ways into this swamp from the sea.’ Davenport replied. ‘I'm certain now that this is the spawning ground for which we've been searching. The queen was making a reconnaissance in readiness for the full moon when all her subjects will come ashore.’

They listened. The progress of the crab was barely audible now.

‘Come on,’ Davenport snapped. ‘We've got to get back. Thank Christ the thing never saw us. Maybe now we can get the bombers over here on a moonlight raid, and blast these monstrosities to hell. We can follow the bank back to the shore now. Queen crab has kindly ripped up the mangroves and made a fairly easy passage for us.’

They set off. A sunlit path along the waterway marked their course now that a host of trees and their thick foliage had been removed. The party's progress was not much quicker, though, for every few yards they were forced to clamber over obstructing fallen trees, and occasionally enter the water to circumnavigate the larger mangroves. But all the time the roar of the waves on the coral shore was becoming louder.

‘I'll be bloody glad to get out of this place,’ Shannon muttered. ‘Don't ever ask me to go in there again. I'll have nightmares for the rest of my life.’

‘Don't worry, you won't have to,’ Cliff Davenport laughed. ‘I guess our search is ended. The bombers can do the rest.’

A few minutes later they saw the sea, a welcoming blue with white waves on the coral readies, dazzling bright sunlight and blue sky.

‘Here we are.’ Three mud-soaked figures scrambled on to firm ground. Then they stopped abruptly, and stared in horror and disbelief.

‘The helicopter's gone!’ Kiln gasped.

‘No, it hasn't,’ Davenport pointed along the edge of the tideline. ‘But what's left of it isn't going to be much use to us. Come on!’

They broke into a run, their tired limbs responding to their frantic efforts, leaping over rocks and coral in their urgency to reach the heap of wreckage that had once been a helicopter, their only means of leaving this dreadful place.

Only the vanes were intact, as though they had been ripped off and cast to one side before the destruction began in earnest. The cockpit had been torn into two separate halves before being flattened beneath some tremendous weight.

There was no sign of Riordan. Shannon delved into the bent and twisted metal, and when he straightened up he was shaking visibly. He retched twice before he was capable of speech.

‘Just like somebody's been slaughterin' pigs in there,’ he gulped. ‘Blood all over the place. But no sign o' Riordan. That queen crab o' yours got him, Davenport.’

Grim-faced Cliff Davenport began his own examination of the debris. Finally he turned and faced his companions, and when he spoke, his voice had lost much of its former confidence and enthusiasm.

‘The radio's smashed,’ he said.

Shannon swore. Klin merely turned away and stared out to sea.

‘Which means that not only are we stranded on this damnable place, but we can't even signal for help.’

‘They'll soon come looking for us,’ Shannon made a futile attempt at optimism, but his voice sounded hollow.

‘They could search for weeks without coming anywhere near this island,’ the professor sat down on some of the debris. ‘This island isn't even marked on the map. Officially it doesn't exist. And not only that. Within a few days these swamps are going to be crawling with spawning killer crabs. And there isn't a damned thing we can do about it!’

Chapter 10

‘Can't say I relish the prospect of a diet of crabs and coon oysters.’ Shannon munched steadily and tried to convince himself that he was eating beef steak.

‘It's either that or starve,’ Davenport replied. ‘I've heard of prisoners in the past existing on a diet of rat meat. In that respect we're rather more fortunate.’

‘We ain't gonna sleep in that jungle, are we?’ Shannon inclined his head towards the mangrove swamp behind them.

‘No,’ the professor smiled wanly. ‘We'd either go down with fever or get eaten alive by insects.’

‘Or crabs,’ Klin added humourlessly.

‘I don't think they'll be coming ashore for a night or two yet.’ Davenport attempted to smash open another tiny crustacean with a piece of rock. ‘We'll pick the most sheltered place we can find amongst this coral. One of us will have to keep watch the whole time, though. We'll take it in turns, two hour shifts. God knows how long we can carry on, though. The chances of anybody finding us are exceedingly remote. My greatest regret is that we're missing out on a golden opportunity to deal the death blow to these oversize horrors. Imagine it, all of them confined within a few hundred acres. They could be bombed out of existence.’

They fell silent. The sun had dipped behind the island. The shadows lengthened, and the breeze blowing in from the sea became increasingly cooler.

‘We'd better look for a place to kip down. Damn it, fancy that queen crab being on the island the whole time. I guess Riordan was too busy watching the sea and didn't anticipate an attack from inland. Probably he had the door closed and never heard its approach. Might even have been dozing. I guess we'll never know, just like Johnson's disappearance: will remain a mystery forever.’

‘There's a lot of mysteries that might be due to the presence of these crabs in the ocean.’ Klin mused. ‘Ships that go missing without trace, and are never heard of again. The Bermuda Triangle, for instance.’

‘Could well be,’ the professor nodded. ‘Just like everybody will be wondering how we managed to disappear. That looks a likely place to bed down. A wall of coral to protect us from the sea, and we've got good vision on all sides. This shelf partly shelters us, too.’

They sat in the small hollow for some time, none of them relishing the idea of sleep but realising that eventually exhaustion would overcome them.

Darkness came quickly. Sometime later they saw the moon. It wasn't far off the complete orb which would bring the crabs scuttling from the sea bed. A few nights at the most.

‘I'll take the first watch,’ Klin volunteered, standing up and leaning against the coral wall.

‘Wake me in a couple of hours.’ Davenport stretched himself out on the hard uneven surface. ‘Shannon can take the last one.’

‘Well light a fire tomorrow,’ Klin said. ‘There's always the chance of a passing ship or aircraft. Those mangroves will burn like buggery. They're half rotted, anyway, like dead trees, with only top foliage.’

Cliff Davenport sat up suddenly.

‘My God,’ he breathed. ‘Why the hell didn't I think of it before?’

‘Seems the logical thing to do to make a signal beacon,’ Klin felt a sense of superiority at having thought of something in advance of his more learned companion.

‘I don't mean just a signal,’ the professor snapped. ‘I mean it is a way by which, with a certain amount of luck, these creatures could be destroyed. Fire is the weapon we must use.’

‘I don't follow you,’ Shannon said. ‘If they don't like fire they'll just shamble off back to the sea in the opposite direction.’

‘But not if they were surrounded by it, a wall of flames through which there was no way out.'

‘We can't just ask 'em to hang about while we build a wall of dead wood around 'em.’

‘We won't need to,’ Davenport cried excitedly. ‘Because they'll already be there, spawning in the swamp. If we build up brushwood at intervals around the perimeter, then all we've got to do is light it when the crabs are in the middle. Once it's alight it should spread. A wall of flame sweeping over the swamp, trapping the crabs. Man, I can hear 'em hissing already.’

‘Sounds a tall order.’ Klin did not share his colleague's enthusiasm. ‘Just the three of us to build the fires, and only a few days to do it in, no axes or anything to cut wood. And even if we are successful and roast the crabs, how the hell do we get off this fucking island?’

‘With the crabs destroyed,’ Professor Clifford Davenport spoke quietly, ‘it. doesn't much matter if we don't. What are three lives compared with the alternative if we fail?’

Colonel Clinton's problems were mounting hourly. He sighed, barely glanced at the official warrant for the arrest of Susan Thompson, alias Caroline du Brunner, and handed it back to the fair-haired man with the piercing blue eyes who sat opposite him in the temporary army headquarters.

‘I've seen the girl,’ he told Detective-Inspector Gould. ‘And I believe that she is staying at the hotel.’

‘Well, she isn't any more,’ the other replied emotionlessly. ‘At this very moment she's lying dead in a pine wood about three hundred yards from here. Murdered. My assistant is with the body now. I'll need your help in cordoning off the wood until I can get some more men out here from the mainland.’

The Colonel leaned back in his chair. He was not bemoaning the fate of Susie Thompson but thinking of the added complications. Three men missing in a helicopter, giant crabs likely to attack again without warning, and now he had to assist the police because someone had chosen this inopportune time to commit murder.

‘We had a tip off she was up to her old tricks on Hayman Island, so Sergeant Royce and I flew out to pick her up. According to one of the marines on duty she left the hotel shortly after daylight yesterday morning. She was preceded by this fellow Klin.’

‘He's missing,’ Clinton snapped irritably. ‘Along with two others who were scouring the islands for mangrove swamps.’

‘But she was followed a few minutes later by a guy named Logan, a big game hunter. Another thing, Colonel, we've checked the morgue, prior to the bodies killed in the battle being flown back to Prosperine. There's another fellow there who interests us. He's listed as Captain Manton, but his real name is Frank Burke. Ex-convict, bank robber. He's got twenty thousand quid in loot hidden away somewhere. We're anxious to find it. First, though, we want to question this guy Logan. He hasn't been seen at the hotel since yesterday. He returned about an hour after his early morning excursion, and booked out.’

‘Well,’ Colonel Clinton smiled. ‘I might be able to solve one or two of your problems, Inspector. Come with me. I think you'll be most interested to see what I've got to show you.’

Somewhat puzzled the detective followed the army officer out of the tent, and across a piece of waste ground to where a temporary wooden hut stood. The door was padlocked, and an armed guard saluted at their approach. The soldier produced a key from his pocket and unlocked the padlock. The door swung open, and inside, seated on an overturned crate, was a large man with a goatee beard. His dejection was evident. He did not even glance up, but remained staring sullenly at the floor.

‘There you are, Inspector.’ There was smug satisfaction in the Colonel's tone. ‘I think that's the man you want to interview.’

‘Harvey Logan!’ Gould made no attempt to disguise his surprise. ‘How in hell d'you come to have him locked up, Colonel?’

‘He's been a nuisance for a day or two,’ Clinton replied. ‘He insists that the giant crab which was actually killed by one of the destroyer's big guns was shot by himself. Well, yesterday afternoon he again demanded one of the pincers as a trophy. Naturally, we cannot release anything like that in the interests of science. In fact, Professor Davenport, one of the missing men, has not finished conducting his post-mortem. This guy insisted that the creature was his, and that he was leaving the island on the next helicopter. He became violent and it took three of my men to restrain him. Then, during the struggle, a suitcase which he was holding burst open. I'll give you just one guess what its contents were.’

‘The sweetest twenty thousand I'm ever likely to set eyes on,’ Gould laughed. ‘Well, I'm going to have a chat with our friend, and try and clear up one or two mysteries.’

‘I’ll leave you to it.' Clinton turned away. ‘The money's been flown back to Mackay, by the way, under escort.’

Gould nodded, and stepped inside the hut, closing the door behind him.

‘I don't know where the hell they've gone,’ Corder snapped when his editor telephoned the Royal Hayman Hotel for the third time that day. ‘They just flew off and didn't come back.’

‘Find out and phone me back.’

‘How the hell can I? The authorities are fairly shitting themselves. They've got spotter planes out, but it looks like they've gone the same way as Johnson.’

‘We'll get a leader article out; “Professor Davenport and colleagues believed to have fallen prey to killer crabs” or something along those lines.’

‘Please yourself,’ Corder growled. ‘But don't put my name to it. There's other things been happening out here besides crabs.’

‘Such as?’

‘That con girl, the one working the du Brunner stunt. They've found her murdered in the woods. The army placed a guy under civilian arrest. He's been officially charged with her murder now. I've got an interview arranged later. I'll let you have the full facts.’

‘Interesting.’ The editor was unenthusiastic. ‘But it's crabs we want. The bigger the better. They're the biggest seller we've had in years. Crabs mean money. Get me some pics of that one they killed.’

‘They won't release 'em yet.’

‘Well get them somehow. Try and sneak into wherever they've got the bleedin' thing.’

‘You gotta be joking,’ Corder replied. ‘These soldier boys ain't playin' games now. Get in their way and they lock you in a fuckin' six-by-six hut with no windows, and an armed guard outside. That way, cobber, you get no stories at all.’

‘Okay,’ the editor sighed. ‘Work on the Davenport mystery. Anything. Just anything.’

The line went dead.

Corder walked out to the front of the hotel. An argument was going on between a group of tourists who wanted to bathe, and a couple of marines who were trying to prevent them. There, were more people on the beach than he had seen for some days. Life on Hayman Island was reverting to normal much quicker than he liked. Unless the crabs reappeared soon, his editor was likely to recall him. Murder, apparently, did not justify his presence on a millionaires' paradise.

The three of them were fully awake with the coming of daybreak. It was a relief to stretch their cramped limbs. Coral was not the ideal bedding material, they decided.

They breakfasted on small crabs which were easily caught just inside the mangrove swamp, Klin returning with six in a matter of ten minutes or so, as well as some coon oysters.

‘If I ever get off this fucking island, I'll never eat another bloody crab as long as I live,’ Shannon grumbled.

‘More likely they'll eat you,’ Klin grinned, and the shark patrol officer scowled.

‘Well, we've got to get cracking.’ Cliff Davenport threw the remains of his breakfast into the water. ‘I'll make a start, going first, walking a mile or so along the shore until I start gathering mangrove wood. Klin can follow, starting building his piles until he comes to the first of mine. Meantime, Shannon, you make a start to the left, working until he meets up with me. How long it'll take, I've no idea. Make your wood stacks so that they can easily be seen from the shore, because when the crabs come ashore to spawn we shall have to go along locating and lighting them by moonlight.’

‘Sounds OK in theory,’ Klin said. ‘At least it'll find us something to do to pass the time. Now, how about keeping a beacon going on the shore, just in case of passing ships or aircraft?’

‘I think we'd better forget that,’ Cliff mused. ‘It'll mean extra work, and also time wasted in keeping it going, one of us having to return at intervals to stoke it up. Also, if queen crab comes ashore again the smell of smoke might cause her to change her plans, and the last thing we want to do is to have them change their spawning grounds. No, I'm afraid we'll have to remain marooned for a while yet. If a plane or a boat shows up, start waving your shirts and hope for the best.’

Shannon set off to the left, Davenport to the right. Both carried their rifles. Shannon fondled his own weapon, and reflected how he might have become a kangaroo hunter. He wished more than ever now that he had followed his childhood calling.

Davenport glanced back over his shoulder. He was out of sight of the other two now. He experienced a feeling of loneliness which had not been apparent before in spite of their plight. Just three men against a virtually invincible foe, their total armament three rifles and a box of matches. He reflected the irony of it all, the years of scientific study in case these Crabs should appear again, the planning, the might of the armed forces which were at his disposal, and now it had to end this way. He was forced to admit to himself that there was very little chance of success. His plan was just too simple. A thousand and one things could go wrong. The crabs might not appear. A sudden storm could extinguish the blaze in a matter of minutes, perhaps the swamp would not set alight as easily as he had hoped, the pools and waterways acting as firebreaks. Nevertheless, he had to try.

Pat was his main worry. The majority of girls would not have appreciated the dangers. She did. She had seen it all before. She would have heard that the helicopter had gone missing. She would be frantic with worry. If only he could have let her know, but if he had been in a position to do that then he would not still be here on this accursed island. He would be sitting in the safety of an office, planning the air attack.

He judged that he had come far enough, and set about making the first of his piles of dead wood. This entailed penetrating the swamp a few yards, the mud squelching as his feet sank into the soft earth.

He was surprised to discover that neither axe nor machete was needed. They would have speeded up his task, but they were not essential. The thinner branches broke off easily in his hands. He gathered an armful and laid the foundation of a pyre on the very fringe of the mangrove swamp. He returned several times until the heap of dead wood was about four feet high, the top resting against the lower branches of the nearest tree. He just hoped that when he came to light it it would ignite and spread in the manner of a forest fire.

He moved on about another fifty yards and began building another. The first had taken something like twenty minutes. There was a lot of ground to cover. He wondered how the other two were progressing. It was vital that the circle of fire was unbroken. They could not afford to leave an avenue of escape for the enemy.

He rested briefly at midday, feasting on freshly killed crab. He was thirsty. Water was another problem which they had overlooked. There was no fresh water, even the brackish pools within the jungle having been filled from the sea. The meat, revolting as it was to him, was juicy. He wondered if its moisture content would be sufficient to sustain them over the days which lay ahead. After that it didn't matter.

About an hour before dusk he returned to their “camp” by the wrecked helicopter. Klin and Shannon were already there.

‘We're in luck,’ Klin grinned. ‘About three hundred yards along there there's a pool of fresh water amongst the rocks. Not very big, but it's fresh. Rainwater, I guess, from the last storm, whenever that was. An overhanging rock shelf has kept the sun off it, and stopped it from evaporating.’

‘You're a genius,’ Davenport grinned.

‘Shannon found it, not me,’ the fisherman said. ‘We've slaked our thirst. It's your turn now. Go easy on it. Don't try washing or anything stupid like that.’

‘I don't care if I never wash again,’ the professor called back as he set off in the direction of the water, and reflected that he probably would not.

As he drank his fill, he estimated that the small hollow held approximately five gallons. Each day some of it would evaporate. It might just last until the crabs came.

Klin had removed about a dozen coon oysters from the roots of the mangroves, and these they ate for supper. The flesh was not exactly a delicacy, but it was a pleasant change from crab meat.

‘I'll take the first watch tonight,’ Shannon volunteered, and neither of the other two attempted to dissuade him. They were all exhausted, and Davenport estimated that their wood piles, covered about a quarter of the total circumference of the swamp. That meant another three days' work. Everything depended upon whether the crabs would actually wait for the full moon itself, or whether they would come ashore in readiness to spawn now that it was close to their time. There was no way of telling. The creatures had raided Hayman Island during a period when they were supposed to be relatively inactive.

Clifford Davenport was asleep within a few minutes of stretching himself out on the coral. Its uneven hardness went unnoticed.

It seemed to him that only seconds had passed before he was being roughly shaken by the shoulder.

‘Ssshh!’ Shannon hissed, and the professor knew instantly that this was no change of sentry duty. Klin was already awake, peering up over the top of their coral shelter. Something was definitely wrong.

Click. Click. Clickety-click.

Davenport muttered and struggled up beside Klin.

‘See 'em?’ the tall man muttered.

The soft moonlight was sufficient to light up the whole shore, only the area in the immediate proximity of the wall of mangrove trees remaining in shadow. Davenport felt the cold fingers of fear stroking his spine as he saw the outlines of three huge clumsily shambling shapes less than fifty yards away, heading in the direction of the swamp. There was something odd about them, though. Movement seemed to be a tremendous effort. They halted every few yards as though to gather strength. They were far bigger than even Queen Crab had been, yet their bodies did not seem co-ordinated. Only when he saw the silhouette of a double head, one above the other, did he understand.

‘Oh, hell,’ he muttered. ‘The spawnings begun! We're too late.’

It was true. The three crabs carried females on their backs, the weight preventing them from moving with their usual scuttling speed. The passengers appeared to be having difficulty in maintaining their positions. One slipped, and the male had to wait whilst its mate remounted him …

Soon the bizarre procession was swallowed up by the blackness of the swamp shadows. The watchers heard the crashing of broken branches, the glugging of roots being dragged forcibly from the mud. They listened to the sounds gradually becoming fainter as the creatures forged a path deep into the mangrove forest. Then silence.

Cliff Davenport concentrated his attention on the tide, staring intently at the nearest waves which washed relentlessly over sand and coral. There was no other movement. Nothing at all.

‘How many did you see before you woke me?’ he asked Shannon.

‘Just them three. Or rather, six. God, it was fucking awful.’

Their instincts drew them directly to the spawning ground,’ Davenport muttered. ‘They didn't even hunt around to find a convenient waterway. That's how strong the urge is when they're ready to spawn. But why only three of them? And their queen hasn't appeared yet.’

‘They could be going in at places all around the island,’ Klin said. ‘We wouldn't see 'em that way.’

‘True,’ the professor replied. ‘But we'd certainly see more than six. We've got a good field of vision from here. All we can do is watch and wait.’

None of them slept for the remainder of that night, their gaze trained unwaveringly on the tideline. But when the sky finally turned grey, and the starlight faded, there had been no further sign of the killers from the deep.

‘Well,’ Davenport shook his head, ‘I can only surmise what is happening. They don't all get the spawning urge at exactly the same time. It's a gradual process, evidently. Whether they all go back to the sea together is another matter. But the fact remains that we've got to work like hell to get our fires built, and we mustn't forget that there are already crabs in the swamp. Six that we know of, more probably that we haven't seen. We can only hope that their condition will make them less active, particularly during the daytime, but we must not overlook the fact that the danger is increased. Don't go further into the swamp than is absolutely necessary to collect wood, and try and be as quiet as possible. Now, let's have a quick bite to eat and get started. We may find ourselves in the position of having to light the fires before the circle is completed and trusting to luck that it spreads. I hope that doesn't happen, but it might.’

The three of them worked frantically throughout the daylight hours, ignoring their tired limbs and the exhaustion which yelled at them constantly to halt and rest for a while. When they returned in the evening they estimated that they had almost doubled their achievements of the previous day.

‘Maybe we can get it finished tomorrow,’ Cliff Davenport leaned back wearily against the coral wall. ‘On the other hand, we might not get the chance. God, I wish you two fellers smoked. At least you'd have your own matches or lighters with you.’ He pulled a half full box of matches from his pocket and began counting the contents. There were fifty. He divided them' into three separate piles, handing one each to both of his companions. ‘Don't waste 'em. Probably you'll find it easier and quicker to use a burning branch once you've got your first fire going.’

They looked at each other through heavy eyelids which threatened to close. It was an effort to keep awake.

‘I'll take the first watch.’ Klin dragged himself to his feet ‘And don't anybody argue.’

Nobody did.

The moon rose, almost a complete orb, bathing the shore in its soft light. Klin looked out to sea and remembered Caroline du Brunner. He wondered what she was doing. Strangely, he didn't much care. He had come to a decision. In fact, he had made it as he laboured throughout the day. Even if he got back to civilisation, which was a decidedly remote possibility, he wasn't going away with her. It wouldn't work out. They had nothing in common apart from sex. She was nothing more than a shallow memory now that he was away from her hypnotic influence. He didn't even get excited thinking about her. She had the knack of getting you to tell her things you wouldn't dream of telling other women. Like where you'd hidden twenty thousand quid that didn't belong to you, anyway. You couldn't have any secrets with a girl like that. And a man needed some secrets.

Suddenly, a movement some fifty yards beyond the tide's edge attracted his attention. He watched it closely. It was like a colossal wave gathering, a wave that did not surge forward but merely drifted, blacker than the water around it. A long line, several hundred yards wide, coming steadily closer.

Then he saw them, huge crabs which neither crawled nor swam, suspended above the water as they clung unsteadily to the backs of those which supported them. He glanced to his right and left. Some were already ashore, walking unsteadily, halting whilst their mounts juggled for a more secure position.

They came from everywhere, rising up out of the waves, shambling ashore, answering a calling that even in their grotesque abnormality they were powerless to ignore.

He shook Davenport and Klin, and whispered, ‘this is it. The whole bloody lot of 'em are here!’

‘There's no break in the line,’ Davenport was instantly wide awake and surveying the situation. ‘There's ten times the number I estimated, and they're going to walk right over the top of us! Get down, get under this shelf, and pray to God they don't see us!’

There was scarcely room for the three of them beneath the overhanging shelf of coral, but somehow they crushed their bodies into it, their backs to the advancing crustaceans, judging the progress of the enemy by the increasing noise, the clicking of nippers and the scraping of huge shells on rough coral.

Suddenly the stars above the huddled men were blotted out. A crab passed directly over them, somehow spanning the shallow chasm with its shell, and allowing its passenger to slide off on the opposite side. Something brushed Shannon's foot, and he almost cried out in terror.

The night sky was visible again as the male re-joined its mate, and squatted whilst she remounted him.

Davenport had no idea how long the spawning march lasted. On several more occasions crabs walked directly over them. Trees were being splintered and uprooted in the forest, the mire beneath gurgling its protest the whole time. A relentless pilgrimage to reproduce their horrific species, the females eager to eject their vile eggs which would create the necessary numbers for them to rule the oceans of the world.

At last the stillness of a Pacific night returned. There was not even the cracking of a twig to be heard in the mangrove swamp.

‘They've gone.’ Shannon's voice was hoarse.

Davenport scrambled up and peered around him. It was as though they had dreamed the whole happening, some horrific nightmare, a delirium brought about by fever, evaporating with a return to normality. But they knew it was no dream. Possibly the entire population of these unearthly creatures was confined in the centre of that mangrove swamp.

‘Well, this is it,’ Cliff Davenport clambered out of the hollow. ‘I don't need to tell you what to do. We might succeed. We might fail. But at least we'll know that we tried.’

They shook hands briefly, and then split up, walking quickly away from each other, none of them looking back.

Clifford Davenport noted with relief and satisfaction the way in which the flames greedily devoured the mangrove wood, consuming it quickly, then licking at the overhanging branches, catching and spreading.

He picked up a burning branch, ran the intervening fifty yards to the next pile, ignited it, selected yet another flaming torch, and rushed on. In his other hand he still held the rifle. Totally useless in a situation such as this, but he could not bring himself to discard it.

It was not long before he noticed the red glow in the sky, and a pall of smoke that partially obscured the moon. He forced himself to even greater efforts, sprinting, stumbling, often falling headlong between the relay points.

At last he reached the last of his piles of mangrove wood, but he did not pause. Snatching yet another flaming brand he ran on, selecting trees at intervals which had an abundance of dead branches, holding the flame against them until they flared up, then continuing in search of another. Soon, however, he was forced to break off other limbs in order to provide himself with a means by which to set fire to the fringe of the jungle as he raced on.

A wall of flame raced into the swamp, consuming all before it, hissing with anger every time it came to either a pool or a waterway, but nothing could stop it. Burning branches fell, bridging the obstructions and the fire continued on its way.

Davenport coughed, his eyes smarted, and the heat seared his body. Leaping flames followed him alongside the edge of the swamp as though telling him that his mission was completed, yet he knew that he could take no chances. The circle had to be completed before the trapped crabs discovered a way of escape.

No longer were there any shadows. Flames reached upwards, accompanied by showers of sparks in a bizarre firework display.

Green wood and thick foliage sizzled, shrivelling up in the intense heat.

Shannon could hear the crabs now. Several times he heard them surging forward in the manner of wild beasts seeking to break cover, but always the flames drove them back. They had met with a foe which they could not overcome by sheer strength. They were beaten.

Then he saw the big crab. She was crouched in the water's edge, half of her bulk hidden by the tide, staring fixedly ahead at the inferno, seeing but not understanding, the firelight reflecting the intensity of the evil in her eyes.

He paused. He had to pass in front of her or else the chain would be broken. For some reason known only to herself she had not come ashore to spawn. Perhaps a queen did not bear offspring, having reached the ultimate in crustacean evolution. Perhaps there was no male capable of supporting her weight on its back. Or maybe none were allowed to mate with her.

Shannon did not know. He only knew that he must bypass her. He set fire to another bush, and broke into a run. She saw him, and moved forward to intercept him, pincers stretched out in anticipation.

‘You bitch!’ he yelled, flinging his burning branch with every ounce of force which his tired muscles could muster.

It sped straight and true as though guided by some unseen power into that hideous face, bursting into a shower of sparks as it found its target.

The monster fell back, squealing and hissing in crustacean rage and pain, and whilst it floundered Shannon was past it. A few yards further on he paused to look back.

The queen crab was threshing the water with her nippers, burying her head in the tide to ease her burning pain. She reared up again. Shannon saw the eyes. They no longer glinted redly. Just two dull lifeless orbs. He had blinded her! She shambled up out of the sea, and stood there, looking in his direction but he knew that she did not see him. The trees nearest to her were blazing and falling outwards, burning debris dropping all about her. She backed away, the incoming waves and thickening smoke screening her from his sight.

He coughed, found another branch, and went on his way.

Something moved in the dense smoke which billowed out ahead of him. He turned to face it, a length of smouldering branch extended to ward off this latest menace. Then a look of relief crossed his smoke-grimed face, and he began to laugh almost hysterically as he recognised Professor Clifford Davenport and Klin. The ring of fire was complete!

‘Good man,’ Davenport clasped him by the shoulder. ‘We've done it. By God, we've done it! This is what hell must be like, only this time it's destroying its own kind.’

‘Queen crab isn't in there,’ Shannon said. ‘She's in the sea. I blinded her.’

‘Jesus!’ the professor groaned. ‘We haven't got 'em all, then. The cunning swine. Just as if she knew. Anyway, we'd better follow the tide out if we don't want to get roasted with these fiends. Strewth, you should have heard 'em, stampeding around like a herd of elephants caught in a bushfire. None got out that I saw. Let's just pray that the queen isn't pregnant.’

They walked out with the tide, flinging themselves down on the coral some distance from the shore, and watching the inferno as it reached its climax, the flames converging in the centre amidst a hissing that was not solely caused by the burning of green wood. After a while it burned silently.

Dawn came slowly, the daylight struggling to penetrate the clouds of smoke which drifted up from the smouldering mangrove swamp. There was no wind. The wood would burn for days, possibly weeks.

Where once lush mangrove trees had grown there now stood grotesque skeletons, the pools and waterways a scum of ash. The funeral pyre of the monster crabs.

‘Nobody'll be going in there for a while,’ Klin grunted.

‘Or coming out,’ Davenport smiled grimly.

None of them chose to discuss their own possible fate. The coon oysters and the small crabs had perished, too. There would be no more food available on Crab Island. It was a place of death and desolation.

It was some time after midday when they saw the plane. It flew low over the island, circled, and when it came round again all three of them were standing on an outcrop of coral waving their smoke-blackened shirts.

Then it was gone. And as the noise of its engine died away they sank down in silence. The worst part was not knowing whether the pilot had seen them. The smoke was thicker than any sea fog.

The day passed slowly. The freshwater pool had dried up in the heat Davenport figured that they could last another couple of days at the most.

Then, towards evening, they heard the sound for which they had been praying, the roar of an approaching helicopter. They did not even need to stand up and try to attract its attention for it was already coming down on that same flat stretch of coral where Riordan had landed three days ago.

The pilot opened the door, and sat waiting as they ran towards him.

‘All aboard, cobbers,’ he grinned. ‘Colonel Clinton wants to see you guys. The charge is arson. Deliberately settin' fire to the Pacific Ocean. There's a line o' smoke from here to Hayman Island!’

‘Home, boy, and don't spare it,’ Davenport grinned. ‘I've got an urgent telephone call to make. Two, in fact.’

He wanted to tell Grisedale personally. But even that would have to wait until after he had spoken to Pat.

Shannon was thinking about all those kangaroos he might have hunted with comparative safety, and the sharks which he would soon be patrolling for again. One was a dream, the other a way of life.

Klin smiled to himself as he remembered a certain suitcase buried amongst the tall pines. Maybe he would leave it right where it was. There were still a lot of fish to be caught in Barbecue Bay. Wealth would only take the challenge out of life.

The End

Thank you for purchasing this ebook.
I hope you enjoyed the read!.
Guy.

This ebook is the ninth book to be published as part of a project to convert Guy's entire back catalogue to ebook format. Beginning July 2010 it is expected to have all books available by the end of 2011.

The list of books so far published is :

1. Werewolf by Moonlight.

2. The Sucking Pit.

3. The Slime Beast.

4. Night of the Crabs.

5. The Truckers 1 - The Black Knights.

6. The Truckers 2 - Hi-Jack!.

7. Return of the Werewolf.

8. Bamboo Guerillas.

9. Killer Crabs.

The next book will be :

10. Bats Out of Hell.

"Professor Brian Newman is researching into a cure for meningitis. Unfortunately, as a by-product, he accidentally creates a lethal mutated version of the disease which is swiftly killing all the bats in his glass test cage. He knows that his experiments have failed and plans to dispose of the bats as soon as all of them have finally succumbed. But, fatally contaminated bats escape to spread their disease around the country. The only possible way to prevent an epidemic is to locate and destroy every single bat; but bats are small, they don't come out during the day and even a country as relatively small as UK has more than enough area to hide them."

To view all ebooks currently available, including the one above, please follow the link below.
View Ebook Catalogue

Best regards,

Guy and all at Black Hill Books.