Bombs tore great holes in the restless sea, but they flowed in upon themselves and were filled. Big guns ripped and slashed at the swarming creatures. Many died. But there were always more. Many, many more.
The shallow margin of the distant ocean was still churned to froth. Still the things came out of it, surging up and on.
Fighting, spawning, dying—and advancing.
Joan Daniels pressed close against him, shuddering. "It just isn't possible, Webb! Bombers, artillery, tanks, trained soldiers. And we can't stop them!" She stiffened suddenly. "Webb!" she cried. "Look there!"
Where the bombers swooped through the smoke, another fleet was coming. A fleet of flat triangular bodies with bat-like wings, in numbers that clouded the sun. Rays, blind and savage and utterly uncaring.
Machine guns brought them down by the hundred, but more of them came. They crashed into heavy ships, fouled propellers, broke controls.
Joan looked away, "And there are so few planes," she whispered.
Fallon nodded. "The whole coast is under attack, remember, from Vancouver to Mexico. There just aren't enough men, guns, or planes to go round. More are coming from the east, but...." He shrugged and was silent.
"Then—then you think we'll have to surrender?"
"Doesn't look hopeful, does it? Japan in control of the Pacific, and this here. We'll hold out for a while, of course. But suppose these things come out of the sea indefinitely?"