Hell's Foundations Quiver by David Weber

stood patiently while his assistants greased his face as well. Then he’d strapped the air bladder of heat-treated rubber to his back, checked the mouthpiece—the “regulator,” he’d called it—and adjusted his weight belt and canvas and rubber gloves, climbed into his kayak, and paddled away into the night.
    He couldn’t take the kayak all the way across without being spotted by the Dohlaran sentries, so the plan had been for him to moor it in the shadow of one of the half-awash hulks farther from the bank, go over the side, and swim the rest of the way. That should at least get him close enough to reduce the total swim and the risk of hypothermia. But something must have gone wrong. He should have been back twenty minutes ago, and—
    Hahrlys froze as something splashed. He strained his eyes, peering into the dark, and it splashed again. He stood a moment longer, then went tearing down the bank, wading out into the icy water. It was more than waist-deep, and he felt himself half-floating and half-wading, felt the dangerous pull of the current, but he refused to stop. Another step. Just one more, and then—
    A gloved hand rose feebly from the water, and he grabbed hard with both his own hands. His right hand slipped on a thick layer of sea dragon grease, but his left hand caught the other man’s glove and he heaved backward. Silt shifted treacherously underfoot and the current plucked at Edwyrds’ body, prying, levering, trying to drag both of them out into the river’s grasp. It was far stronger than Hahrlys was, and he felt himself being sucked deeper and deeper. The water was shoulder-deep now, slopping at his chin, but this was one of his men. If the river took one of them, then it took—
    â€œ Hold on, Sir! ”
    His head whipped around, startled out of the intensity of his battle with the river, as Platoon Sergeant Tyllytsyn grabbed his pistol belt from behind.
    â€œDon’t let go, Sir! Not yet!”
    Something went around Hahrlys’ body. The cold had already numbed his extremities, but he felt the rope jerk tight. Then—
    â€œOne more second, Sir!”
    Tyllytsyn thrashed past the lieutenant. He was a shorter man. While Hahrlys’ feet were still on the bottom, the platoon sergeant was swimming, but he stroked strongly and the lieutenant felt a sudden easing of the current’s pressure as Tyllytsyn got a firm grip on Edwyrds’ weight belt.
    â€œGot him!” the platoon sergeant gasped. “Now let go and let them haul you in, Sir!”
    â€œNo.” Hahrlys didn’t recognize his own voice. Was that because it sounded so hoarse and breathless or because his cold-numbed brain wasn’t working very well? “You’ll need help pulling him out of—”
    â€œLet go,” Tyllytsyn repeated, the two words hard and unyielding. “Happen I can swim, Sir. An’ I was smart enough t’ tie onto a line before I went swimmin’, too. Now let go! ”
    Hahrlys gaped at him for another moment, his brain churning sluggishly, then nodded.
    â€œWhatever you say, Gyffry,” he murmured, and released his grip. The rope around his waist plucked at him insistently, dragging him back the way he’d come, and he managed to grip the rope and turn in the same direction, holding onto the line and letting his legs and body float behind him.
    By the time two of his men had hauled him ashore, three more had Tyllytsyn and Edwyrds within a few feet of the bank. Someone else floundered out into the water to help pull Edwyrds out, and Hahrlys managed to crawl to their side. He was probably more hindrance than help, he thought later, but he didn’t worry about that at the time. He got a firm grip on Edwyrds and added his own feeble efforts to the fight to get the sergeant free of the water.
    They dumped him on the muddy bank and Tyllytsyn peeled off the other noncom’s swimming glasses. He pulled the bladder