Savage Armada

by James Axler

  "Let's move," Ryan said, working the bolt on the Steyr. The ship was sinking fast, and there were more things in the sea to watch for than just desperate men.

  Sitting side by side, J.B. and Doc took the first set of oars. Krysty and Jak took the next set. Mildred stayed in the bow with a lantern held low to watch the surface for submerged obstructions, a blaster at the ready. Just in case.

  Awkwardly at first, then with greater ease, the companions started rowing, the oars hitting the planks and gunwale as the bottom of the skiff scraped noisily across the deck. Then the lifeboat cleared the bow, sinking a good foot into the water. The oars dipped in clean now, without hindrance, and they started moving freely, rapidly building speed.

  Barely visible in the moonlight, two more boats pulled away from the sinking giant. Jones stood in one, oddly silent for a change, the short man just staring at the listing vessel. Illuminated by a lantern, Abagail was in the other, along with her team of girls and a few wounded men.

  The creaking of the lowering mast mixed with the splashing of the oars, the loose canvas sails fluttering with sharp snaps in the wind. The skiffs were a dozen yards away when a handful of sailors called for the others to wait as they waded through the knee-deep waters on the vessel. Clumsily going into the sea, they started swimming for the moving skiffs. Nobody slowed or waited for them to catch up.

  "Damn fools hid until all the work was done," J.B. growled in annoyance, matching his strokes to those of Doc alongside him. "Lazy bastards."

  "So die," Jak stated unconcerned. "Plenty more fools."

  "Evolution in action," Doc muttered, rowing steadily.

  "How many are there?" Krysty asked, hauling the oars up from the water, then down to push. The wound in her shoulder started to throb, and she forced the pain from her mind.

  "Don't know, don't care," Ryan said, the long-blaster held ready. "This one is ours."

  "I won't turn away people long as there is room," Mildred stated firmly. "We can easily hold two more, maybe three."

  "Those who reach us first get a berth," Ryan replied, "and will do all the rowing. But once we're full, nobody else. Not going to risk our lives."

  Reluctantly the physician acquiesced to the cold equation. There was no Coast Guard to rescue swimmers, no helicopters to drop supplies and rubber rafts, no Red Cross with coffee and doughnuts and CPR. The companions were alone, and survival always seemed to be a matter of ruthless logic. One died or ten died; there really was no choice to be made.

  "And if they try anyway?" Krysty asked.

  Ryan leveled his blaster at the approaching swimmers. "Our lives or theirs," he stated. "But I don't think it's going to be a problem."

  "What do you mean, sir?" Doc asked perplexed.

  "Sharks," Dean answered grimly.

  Sharp fins cut the surface of the water, converging from every direction. There had to have been hundreds. A man screamed and fell in pieces, blood swirling around his struggling form. Another went under without a cry. A third reached a skiff and almost made it aboard when he was yanked back down out of sight.

  Jones fired a flintlock at the monsters of the deep. A shark was hit by the .75 miniball at point-blank range with no noticeable effect.

  Suddenly a tattooed hand grabbed the rim of the companions' lifeboat, and Draco tried to haul himself from the drink.

  "Please," he croaked. "Help…me…"

  Recognizing the face seen through his sniper scope, Ryan rammed the stock of the longblaster into the pirate's face, breaking teeth. The sailor lost his grip and slipped back into the sea, floundering helplessly as the skiff pulled away. The water washed the blood away from his mouth, and moments later sharks were circling the man. Screaming meaningless words, Draco drew a curved knife and stabbed at the dark shapes, then he jerked as something grabbed him from below. Another fin brushed by, and squealing in madness, Draco was hauled abruptly out of sight into the depths.

  Grimacing, Jones tucked his blaster away. The pirate couldn't have died in a better way, or his own crew in worse. The sea was a hot slit that loved you and chilled at the same time. Aye, the biggest bitch in the world, but she was still the only female he'd ever call wife.

  "Cap'n, there she goes!" a sailor cried out.

  Pausing in their rowing, the companions took a moment to look at the distant ship. A wave broke over the gunwale of the Constellation, going fully across her deck. There was a great belch of trapped air escaping from the hold, then the groaning vessel sank beneath the swirling waters. Only the crow's nest atop the mast stayed on the surface for an inordinate length of time, as if the vessel had somehow hit bottom, then it slid out of sight and was gone.

  A brief whirlpool formed around the area, hauling wreckage, bodies and sharks below, only to return them again in a few minutes in a rush of water. The churning waves crashed against each other, the force radiating outward, and soon the surface was smooth and calm, as if nothing had ever occurred at that location.

  The sharks still circled the lifeboats, but Jones stood and saluted, while most of the sailors slumped over in heart-stricken grief. At the tiller, Abagail stayed safely seated, as did the girls, but even the wounded sailors wiped away tears.

  "Why sad?" Jak asked, confused. "They dull-brains? Jus' a wag."

  "Merely a vehicle? Oh no. The Constellation fought in the Revolutionary War," Doc said softly, "and ran the Rebel blockades in the Civil War."

  "Carried troops in World War I," Mildred added, feeling strangely moved by the loss. "And was a radar ship that spotted Nazi bombers in World War II. Moved medical supplies to Korea, too. That ship fought in every major American war."

  Doc nodded. "A piece of our history died this day."

  "But not us," Ryan said bluntly. He agreed with Jak. It was just a thing, like a boot, or a knife, not blood kin. Sailors were as crazy as the damn scholars.

  "They lived and died on that ship. How would you feel if your childhood home of Front Royal was destroyed?" Doc asked simply.

  Without answering, Ryan shouldered his blaster and cupped hands to his face. "Hey, Jones! How far to Cold Harbor?"

  The other lifeboats smoothly moved closer, only occasionally nudged by a passing shark testing the strength of a craft. The crew backslipped their oars, halting the craft just out of grabbing distance.

  "Three days by oars," Jones said, shifting his weight to the rocking of the skiff. "Got any food on board?"

  "Enough for a day or two," Ryan said, nudging his backpack with a boot. He knew there were a dozen MREs, some smoked condor and a single self-heat can of soup. But shared with all of the others it wouldn't make one meal. This trip could get nasty real fast.

  "Same here," Jones lied. He had made damn sure there was a full sack of dried fish in the skiff before they left, but wasn't about to share any with the outlanders unless absolutely necessary. His crew came first.

  "We only have water," Abagail said, resting a hand protectively on a small keg. "Anybody got a net, or a hook and line?"

  Dean started to reach for his bowie knife, then stopped. The handle was hollow, and the pommel could be screwed off to hide things inside. But the fishing hooks and predark nylon line had been lost in a whirlpool in the Carolinas. Now it only held a piece of jerky and two live rounds for emergencies.

  "Nothing here," Krysty answered, checking under the seats.

  "Damn."

  "Any place closer where we can hunt for food?" Doc asked hopefully. "Or barter for it. A ville or an island, perhaps?"

  "Not that I know of," the captain answered thoughtfully, rubbing the back of his neck. "Cold Harbor is the closest ville. Lots of atolls, most of them only sand and grass."

  Then he hesitantly added, "But we can get there a lot faster if we can reach the Jaluit River."

  Ryan understood the reference. There were mountains bigger than anything on dry land under the ocean, and the currents followed the ranges making rivers in the sea. A smart ship could catch one going in the right direction and save a shit
load of time and effort. Sounded like just what they wanted.

  "B-but, skipper," a sailor said, weakly raising his heavily bandaged head, "that river goes by Forbidden Island."

  "We got a choice, swab?" The man made no response. "Thought as much. Forbidden Island, it is."

  "No way!" Daniels screamed, brandishing a fist. "We got smashed by the storm, captured by slavers, the captain dies, the Connie sinks and now this? The Jaluit River? You've gone mad, and I'll not let ya chill us all!"

  "Siddown," Jones said, his voice low and dangerous, rising to his feet. "I'm still your captain."

  "Never!" Daniels spit. Hauling a blaster from his belt, he aimed the colossal weapon at the short man.

  Quickly Jones drew his own hand cannon, but Abagail stood and made a throwing gesture. Daniels gasped as the knife hit his leg. Cursing, he turned the flintlock toward her, and a knife slammed into his lower back, exactly at the kidneys. Crying out in pain, he pulled out the knife and the red trickle became a crimson gusher. Sagging weakly, Daniels tried to aim for Jones again, dying by the heartbeat. A sailor in the skiff grabbed his blaster by the hammer, preventing it from discharging, and another yanked out the knife in his leg. Daniels recoiled and fell over the side to hit with a splash. He clawed at the lifeboat and was pushed away with an oar. Gagging on the saltwater, the dying man tried to stay afloat when the sharks arrived and violently finished the job.

  "Anybody else?" Jones asked, pulling back the second hammer of his double-barreled blaster.

  "We die either way," a sailor said listlessly, the rest muttering unhappy agreement. "Guess it don't much matter how."

  Taking his oars, Jak bumped Krysty and together they did a few strokes to keep the boats aligned for conversation. The other rowers did the same.

  "What's wrong with the island?" Ryan asked, relaxing his firing stance. Aside from liking Jones, the pint-sized sailor was their best bet to keep sucking air. He wanted the man alive.

  "Don't know for sure," the captain replied, easing down the hammers of his piece and tucking it away. "Some folks say its bad air from the volcanoes. It's got two, and you can see them smoking for a hundred miles away." He glanced to the south, but there was nothing there yet. Just a wine-dark sea and endless stars on the horizon merging into the fiery clouds.

  "Is death quick, sir, or do you cough a lot?" Doc asked, rubbing his unshaved chin. "We can easily make masks from our clothing and wet them in the ocean. That should last long enough for us to get by most deadly of noxious gases."

  "Been tried," the short man replied hotly. "This air makes your hair fall out, then ya gums bleed, soon ya go faint then vomit out guts and die."

  "Rad poisoning," Mildred identified, flexing her hands. Rowing was a lot harder than she remembered. The gamma radiation had to be off the scale.

  J.B. touched the rad counter on his lapel. "We have a device that can warn us if we get too close."

  "Really?" a bandaged girl asked, noticeably perking up at the statement.

  "Hey, toss it over and let me see," a sailor asked casually.

  Faint thunder rolled from the cloudy sky as Ryan glared at the man, and the sailor shamefully looked away. Damn idiot. He had to be the asshole who made it aboard after the skiff left the sinking ship. He made a mental note to keep a watch on the man.

  "You show us the way," Ryan stated, "and we'll take the point position, guide everybody past the hot spots."

  "And if the currents carry us too close?" Abagail asked, hugging the till. "What do we do then, eh?"

  "We die," he answered bluntly. Thunder sounded again, and to the north the stars disappeared behind a wall of heavy rain.

  "Okay, you got another deal, outlander," Jones said, then reached into his pocket to withdraw a small piece of wicker, the dried reeds woven into a very complex pattern. Holding it up to the southern sky, he maneuvered it around until aligning several stars through holes in the material.

  "Head that way!" he said, pointing. Listening for the approaching storm, Ryan added, "And we better hurry."

  Chapter Twelve

  The sun was a blazing ball of fire above the sea, the storm clouds only thin slashes across the azure sky, the golden rays streaming through to sparkle off the ocean waves.

  Standing near the wheel, Captain Bachman mopped the sweat from his face and straightened his wicker hat. The shade it created helped some, but not much. The air felt as hot as a forge, and it was hours until noon. But it was always this way after a storm. As if the world was born anew.

  The pirate ship Gibraltar was quiet, the slaves working down in the hold, the decks scrubbed, the rigging tight. They had already hauled in a load of fish from the drag nets, and some of the crew were sitting on barrels gutting the fish and separating the meat into one bucket, the inedible scales into another and the guts into a third for the slaves. They'd be delighted over fresh food. Bachman knew his men considered him a little soft on the slaves, but even a horse worked better with food in its belly. Same with people. That was just a fact of life. Whips couldn't make the dead walk.

  "Ahoy the deck! Man overboard!" the lookout in the crow's nest hollered to the deck. "Off the port bow!"

  The crew dropped the gutted fish and rushed to the gunwales for a look. A bosun rose from his wicker chair and cocked back both of the hammers on his duck-foot blaster. Bachman approved. Good man. Trust nothing, and stay alive. That was the motto carved into the bow of the Gibraltar.

  Walking to the edge of the quarterdeck, the captain lifted a predark eyeglass lens from his vest pocket tied to a piece of string. It still frightened him a little that it didn't seem to work for anybody else. Only him. A gaudy slut had once suggested that human eyeballs might be different. It sounded reasonable until he caught her trying to lift his blaster when they were fucking. Drove a knife into her ear, and finished the job anyway.

  Closing an eye, he held the lens at different distances from his face until he could see wreckage floating on the water, what looked like a piece of a ship's deck. A man was sprawled facedown on the sodden wood, the toe of one boot dipping into the waves.

  "Red Blade!" the captain shouted, tucking the lens away. "Send a skiff to rescue the bastard."

  A man at the railing guffawed. "Davey brought us a nice new slave!"

  "Mebbe," Bachman said warily. "Let's talk to him first before dress his hands in shackle."

  Pulleys squealed as the skiff was lowered, and Bachman had a mental note to flog the crew for not greasing the metal. In a battle, that could cost the ship.

  Standing at the bow, Red Blade shouted orders as the skiff was rowed over to the flotsam and hauled the unconscious man aboard. The bosun watched from the bow of the Gibraltar, his blaster tracking everything. Occasionally he would look over the other side of the ship, just in case this was a ruse to divert their attention.

  Minutes later, the lifeboat was hauled back into position, and the curious crew laid the wounded man on the deck. His face was a battlefield of acne scars, tattoos covered most of his skin and there was a scabby wound on his arm. He was carrying several weapons, which Red Blade took and tucked into a wide leather belt.

  "He got da same," a sailor said, tugging on the belt. "Must be one of us."

  "Could be," Red Blade agreed in a growl, a thick white scar crossing his neck from ear to ear.

  Bachman walked over and studied the man for a minute.

  "Don't know him," he said. "But then, I don't know all of us. More every day with the lord bastard making ville fight ville. Smoky, give him some water and wine. Let's see if there's any spunk still in this pile of fish bait."

  "Aye, Cap'n," a pale sailor said, and swung around a gourd suspended on a leather strap. He pulled out a cork and carefully dribbled some of the mixture into the man's slack mouth.

  At first nothing happened, then the unconscious sailor breathed in some of the fluid and violently awakened, hacking and coughing for breath. Smoky continued to pour, and the man swallowed some simply to clear his throat. Almost
immediately, he sat up fully alert, then bent over and vomited on the deck.

  Crossing his arms, Bachman frowned at that. Idiot had to have been sipping saltwater. His guts would be all twisted up inside.

  "Got a name, matey?" the captain asked gruffly.

  "Giles, lieutenant of the…" He wheezed and gasped. "Got to find them…"

  "We'll find your ship. If you're a brother," Red Blade rumbled.

  "Blade, blood and bones," Giles croaked, and took the gourd away from the pale man to drink greedily, excess flowing over both of his cheeks. Lowering the container, he poured some more into his palm and wiped his face.

  "Powder and blades," he finished, placing a fist to his heart.

  "Welcome aboard," Bachman said, and waved off the bosun. As the guard eased down the hammers of his longblaster, the crew relaxed, and Red Blade offered the fellow pirate a hand, easily hauling him erect.

  "Damn near went to Davey there," Red Blade said, offering back the weapons.

  Giles brushed them aside and drank some more. "They're yours. I won't stand beholden to no man."

  Red Blade merely grunted and tucked the blaster into his boot, then forcibly put the knife into Giles's belt.

  "No man walks naked on the Gibraltar," he said roughly. "Don't fuck with me, or I'll toss ya back."

  "Fair Steven," Giles said, turning the handle about so it would be easier to grab. "Owe ya."

  "No," Bachman said, "you owe me. Where's your ship?"

  "Sunk," Giles said, almost sputtering, hate distorting his ugly face into something worse. He staggered, then stood straight. "Bunch of outlanders got the Delta Blue. Fuckers had rapidfires, grens, plas. You name it!"

  Although intrigued, Bachman managed to control his reaction. He had heard such tales before. Outlanders with nuke batteries, MRE packs, whiskey, nukes, airplanes, all sorts of crap. He was too old to believe in lost tech and a world beyond the last island.

  "Bullshit," Red Blade said bluntly.

  "On my oath," Giles shot back hostilely, staggering again. "Brass shells were everywhere from that little blaster. Rad me, I'd give me left nut to have them in my sights again. Draco was the best captain ever!"