Gabe addressed four of the ranking Gears. “You’ll hit Scabbard Cove. Secure the beach and get up on Gatka Ridge as quickly as you can. If you can move toward the spire from there, I’ll be pleased and surprised. Do so if you can, but the main purpose of your assault is to keep the enemy’s focus on that approach.”
They called in their affirmatives.
“Blair and Akino, your squads are with me.” Blair was already on his boat, as before, along with her squad. Akino was on another. “We’re going to retrace our path from yesterday, approach from the west, and find a way up to Cathedral without need of the ridge.”
“But you said the ridge was the only way up,” Blair observed.
“That’s what the maps say,” Gabe agreed, “and what the UIR will be thinking.”
“You know something the maps don’t again, sir?”
Gabe met her gaze. “Not this time,” he said. “We’ll find a way up, or we’ll make one.”
Blair drew in a deep breath and let it out. Apparently that was all the agreement he was going to get.
“Pilots,” Gabe said, “at some point darkness will become a hindrance instead of an advantage. Be ready with the flare guns, and on my order put them over the south side of the island. It’ll reveal the enemy, and give us shadow. Ditch your goggles at that point.”
There seemed to be nothing else to say. He checked his watch again.
“Two minutes. Make me proud. Once the island is in view I want radio silence until we hit the shore.”
Gabe turned off the comm and clapped Mendez on the shoulder. The man looked profoundly unhappy. Approaching a rocky shoreline at night like this was the epitome of risk to a boat and her crew.
“You proved to me yesterday you can handle this,” Gabe told him. “I’ve no doubt you can get us onto that island safely.” Mendez dipped his chin, then went back to his controls and started conferring with the navigator in a low voice. Gabe turned back to the Gears, then, and readied his own kit. Lancer, extra magazines, and grenades.
“Sir?” Davis said.
He glanced at the sniper and nodded. “Go ahead.”
“Am I on the roof again?”
“No, Davis, I want you on the island with us. I have a special task for you.”
She didn’t quite manage to hide her grin.
“Everyone bring grenades,” Gabe told the group. “If we can’t secure that tech, our orders are to make sure the enemy doesn’t get it.” Assuming they hadn’t already dismantled the damn thing, and moved it to their base for study. Gabe put that possibility out of mind.
When the minute hand reached seven, the boats roared to life in unison. Four went around the eastern side, making for Knifespire and, specifically, Scabbard Cove. The other two went west, out to sea, taking the longer way round.
As the boat powered westward, Gabe watched Adena Island recede into the distance. The island was dark against the sky, nothing more than a silhouette beneath the stars.
He knew of the unwritten rule the islanders adhered to, keeping a strict blackout at night. They took no part in the conflict, their peaceful tradition as old as the islands themselves, it sometimes seemed.
So it was odd to see a single, dim light flickering there now, almost as if staring back at him. Someone was up late, perhaps a mother caring for her sick child, or just a careless mistake by an old fisherman up to take a piss. A mistake that ordinarily would have gone unnoticed.
He watched the light until it, too, faded into the distance.
* * *
That light was, in fact, a candle.
It sat on a desk beneath a window in a small hut at the edge of the village. The man sitting at that desk had come to Adena three years ago, an outcast from another island farther south, or so he’d said. He had the accent, anyway, and he came with a fishing boat and items to trade.
No one really cared where he was from, in truth. Adena’s population had been in decline for decades, ever since it had found itself in the middle of a sea endlessly patrolled by two warring sides. A newcomer meant a better catch, and that meant more trade.
Of course, they would have frowned upon his use of a candle after dark. Cast him out, even. But he’d chosen the location for his hut well. The only one of them on the western side, facing that direction. Too many bugs, too stiff a breeze, the others felt. He told them he could put up with these things because of the spectacular view.
Sitting at the window, candle at his elbow, the man in the hut watched two COG boats move off to the northwest, toward open ocean. This was strange. They were small boats, with only a ninety-mile nominal range, capable of carrying six to ten soldiers in addition to a crew of three. COG Patrol. Armament was a forward deck gun, .50 caliber rotary style. The vessel’s draft was three feet. On a piece of paper he noted the designation, the heading and speed, and a few other observations.
Then began the laborious process of encrypting his notes with a pad the UIR had provided when they’d recruited him.
He’d offered his services to the COG, first. Like most islanders he didn’t care about either side or their ridiculous war. The COG had just been closer, that was all, but a Gear had stopped him at the gate to Vectes and cut him off halfway through his proposal.
“You smell like fish, islander,” the man had said, disgusted. “Come back after you’ve had a shower. Is that a term you know, islander? Shower?”
He’d walked away with their laughter behind him. Returned to his boat, sailed north—all the way north—and tried his luck there. The UIR had welcomed him.
Ciprian Demov powered up the transmitter and began to tap in the coded message, as he had the day before when the LCU had passed by. Once done, he burned the paper before returning to his vigil at the window.
“Ten goras says they don’t come back,” he said to his companion.
The monkey hissed at him, then went back to its fitful sleep, stretched out across its master’s shoulders.
6: CATHEDRAL WALTZ
Still half a mile from shore, Gabe knew his ruse had failed. Badly.
Maybe he’d tried to be too clever. That was the only explanation that came to mind. Returning to Knifespire via the same route they’d taken before, sailing right over the sandbar, had seemed like the right move. Who would expect them to use the same path again?
Whoever was commanding the UIR force, that’s who.
Gabe had been out-thought.
Or, worse, someone had talked. That seemed unlikely, though.The only people who knew this part of the plan were on his boat or the other, and there wasn’t exactly a private place from which to get a message off.
All this went through his mind in a split second, while everything went to hell.
The first sign of trouble was the fleet of enemy patrol boats, running dark and keeping in the deep clefts of the shore on this side. All at once they lit up their searchlights, utterly blinding when viewed through night-vision goggles. Gabe tore his from his head and tossed them aside.
There were eight of the enemy boats. Gabe wasn’t even to shore yet and already he was outnumbered four to one.
That wasn’t the worst of it.
Before Gabe could grasp what he was seeing, Gian had roared the one word every sailor dreaded to hear.
“TORPEDO!”
There was no time to think. Luckily, Mendez had the instincts of a veteran pilot. He yanked the wheel hard to starboard. His counterpart in the other boat went to port at the same instant.
The torpedo exploded between them.
Neither boat was damaged. The quick maneuver had spared them that, but neither could avoid the sudden surge of the sea beneath them. The deck beneath Gabe’s feet tilted violently. He felt the upward surge, tossing him into the air. Somehow he had the presence of mind to let go of the railing and let himself be thrown free.
Then the water hit him. Cold, dark. Unbelievably dark.
Gabe propelled himself under. Behind him came the crash of the patrol boat as it hit the waves again. Th
e sound of it, even muted by the water, was shocking. He kicked away, then up. By now he should have hit the surface. There’d been no time to draw a breath, and already his lungs were screaming. He kicked again, pulled back against the water with both hands.
Suddenly he broke the surface. Cool night air. He gulped it in, caring in that instant about nothing else.
Something tapped across the water, skipping past him like a flat stone thrown across a placid lake. Another followed. Then the sound arrived. Machine-gun fire. Those UIR patrollers. There was no time to look around, to take stock. He took a deep breath and kicked under the water again.
Gabe swam toward his boat. It was just a blur in the distance, maybe thirty feet away. Had he been thrown that far? Had to have been. He kicked harder, putting all his strength into it. He had to make it to the deck, get to the rotary cannon.
A flash of yellow blinded him. The shockwave, dulled by the ocean, still hit him like a fist. Gabe was rocked backward, all thought banished. When his senses returned he didn’t know up from down. Panic crept in, overwhelming him. He battled it back, forcing himself to remain calm. Panic would lead to certain death. He had to survive.
And what? Get blown to pieces by those machine guns? Or would they just haul him from the waves and toss him in prison?
Still, he had to try.
He came to the surface slowly this time. Barely a ripple announced his presence. His patrol boat was on fire and sinking fast. The other was gone already.
A body lay in the water nearby, face down, arms out. No doubt as to their fate. Still, he kicked to it and lifted the shoulder enough to see who it was. The lack of armor meant one of the crew. It was his navigator. Gabe realized then he’d never bothered to learn the man’s name. He’d done his job so quietly and competently that there’d been no need.
Gabe patted the man’s shoulder and said a silent thanks for the sacrifice he’d made.
Then he noticed the change.
The enemy lights had gone. Or, not gone, but shifted drastically. The eight enemy patrol boats were moving off, to either end of Knifespire, and at speed. He knew at once what it meant.
They’d learned of Gabe’s approach from the west, somehow, and assumed that was the whole of the COG assault force. Which meant the other four boats had most likely arrived at Scabbard Cove to minimal, if any, resistance. They were supposed to be the diversion, but in reality it was Gabe’s two-boat attack force that had misdirected the enemy.
Either way, it had earned him a few precious minutes. He intended to make full use of them, and shouted into the darkness.
“Anyone there? Sound off!”
Names began to come to him over the chaos, the flames, the waves. For the moment Gabe was counting. Two lost. Less than he’d guessed, but not a stellar beginning to the night.
“Any wounded?”
Only one called back. A Gear named Mendoza.
“I’ve got him!” Blair called out.
“Everyone swim for shore. We don’t have much time. They’ll be back.” He decided to leave out his deeper fear. That torpedo had come from a submarine, from somewhere behind them, and no doubt they were still lurking in the darkness. They’d surface soon, and could use their deck guns to take care of any survivors.
Then Gabe had an idea.
He heard others start the grueling swim toward the dark, imposing shape of Knifespire. He hoped they’d remember the plan—the small cleft in the rock near the spire, with water pouring out into the sea. A stream, which meant a ravine that might be a way ashore. Slim as plans went, but it was the best he’d been able to come up with. Of course, that plan had relied on the two boats to get them in close, and take them out again if no path could be found up to the jungle.
Gabe swam west, out to sea. Calm, slow movements, his head always above water, every sense open and waiting for any sign of his prey.
It arrived seconds later, and closer than he’d expected.
The water beneath him began to froth, then bulge upward. Then the conning tower emerged from the waves, behind him. Before he could spin around he felt the deck of the submarine press against his feet. He grabbed on for dear life as the boat surfaced, water pouring off its deck and hull.
There was no time to appreciate his luck. He crawled, then managed a controlled stumble, toward the conning tower. There was a ladder on the side. He scrambled upward. From above came a shriek of metal as the hatch was opened.
Two rungs from the top, Gabe heard someone talking in a low voice, describing the position and quantity of the COG survivors swimming frantically toward shore. Gabe heaved himself up the last rung, putting himself waist-high above the edge of the tower.
The sailor had his back to Gabe.
The hatch was still open.
Gabe dropped a live grenade inside. One of the high-explosive variety he’d borrowed from Wyatt’s Ghosts. Once it left his hand he had five seconds. Someone shouted a cry of alarm from below as Gabe sent a second grenade rattling onto the metal platform where the sailor stood. The man turned around in time to see an MX8 Snub pistol pointed at his chest. Gabe fired twice, straight into the heart, and then threw himself from the tower.
It was a bad jump, and he hit the water on his side, arms and legs flailing. In that same instant the conning tower exploded. A bright fireball from the platform, along with a deep thud from inside.
Gabe was in the waves, then, stinging from the impact with the ocean. He fought for the surface once again. What sort of damage he’d done to the submarine, he had no idea, but the gambit worked. The commander would have to assume a full-scale assault on his ship. It began to turn, but not submerge. He’d destroyed the hatch and damaged the tower badly enough that they had to worry about flooding should they dive.
He turned all his attention, and what energy he could muster, toward reaching shore. Glancing back, he saw the submarine sailing west to deeper waters, her still-exposed tower roiling with flame and dimly visible inky black smoke.
He faced forward again, and the minutes blurred together. His world became that wall of rock, which seemed to remain exactly the same distance away. Pulling and kicking, he spat salty water from his mouth whenever a sudden wave would slap across the side of his face. Time became a fuzzy thing.
And then it wasn’t.
He remembered his comm, and tapped it. There was a voice in his ear. Radio silence was no longer a priority, which he supposed was for the best. Radio silence only worked when everyone was where they were supposed to be, and the plan was still the plan.
“…a foothold, but… to the top. Advise.”
“Need,” Gabe said, “help.” His limbs were like noodles, his energy spent. Staying above water was becoming impossible. But someone was talking over him. Their words were garbled, partly by interference and partly by a sudden swell that crashed over him and sent him under again. Then he realized, somehow, that the waves were pushing him toward the place he needed to be. He remembered his training. The words of his instructor still clear in his mind.
“Let the ocean win for ninety seconds out of a hundred. You only need to win for ten, and you’ll survive. That’s all that matters.”
So he put his face in the water and made himself into a star, arms and legs spread. He floated on the waves, which grew stronger, and when he could stand it no more, when he’d let the sea win for as long as his lungs could stand, Gabe trod water long enough to satisfy his lungs. Ten seconds of deep breaths, then back to the dead-man’s float and the mercy of the sea.
A fine plan until his leg smashed into a rock.
Jerking himself upright, he howled in agony. Absolute darkness filled his vision and it took him a second to recognize it for what it was. The wall. The edge of Knifespire Island.
He bit back the throbbing pain and cast about, trying to recognize something… anything… that might tell him which way to go.
“Flares,” Gabe said into his radio. “Flares. Now. Flares!”
He had no idea if anyone was
even listening at this point. He tried to push backward, to keep himself from being smashed against the unforgiving rock in front of him, twenty feet high. Just a wall of black, and the hint of starry sky above it.
Then a flare lit the world in a brilliant orange.
Another… and another!
Launched from the boats, the glowing stars of flickering light began to drift slowly downward, swaying in the wind. This gave the light they cast an almost drunken quality, and with three of them alight at once the effect bordered on psychedelic. But it was enough.
Gabe glanced right, then left. And to the left he saw them. Several pairs of glowing red eyes. His Gears in their borrowed night-vision goggles. As his eyes adjusted, Gabe spotted a sailor as well, clambering into a ravine where white water spilled over the rocks and into the sea. He threw all his energy into the swim. A hundred yards, that was all. He could make that. He had to.
The rocks at the mouth of the stream were smooth and slick, but worn down, too. He pulled himself up the first he came to and rested. Then he reached for another, but it wasn’t rock he found. It was the clasp of another hand.
“Thought we’d lost you,” Blair said, pulling him up onto a large natural platform on the side of the ravine. “Uh, LC, did you just take out an Indie sub? By yourself?”
“Damaged it is all,” he replied, lying down to catch his breath. “With any luck it won’t be back.”
“You saved our asses.”
“Talk to me about it when we’re back at base, okay?”
She grimaced, and nodded.
“Where’s Davis?”
The sniper came over to him, eager as ever.
“You up for a climb?”
“Yessir.”
“Good. Blair, I want you and Davis to find us a way out of this ravine. Report back when you’ve got a path.”
The pair moved off and started to work their way along the ravine wall, heading upstream. Blair understood, without needing to be told, that a straight climb wouldn’t work with everyone banged up and still recovering. The flares still hung in the air above them, but they wouldn’t do so for long.
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