So intent were they on the front hatch, the cons roared past on either side oblivious to the side gun ports. The Gillespie brothers rewarded their inattention by shooting two cons out of their boats, one on each side.
The attackers roared past out of sight. Howell willed the lifeboat downriver as she heard Jimmy in the open doorway behind her, blazing away at the boats as they raced away upstream.
“GOT ONE OF THE BASTARDS!” she heard him yell, followed by, “THEY’RE COMING BACK!”
Jimmy’s gun was their only defense now, as he was the only one who could see the attacking boats. She heard repeated three-round bursts as he fired, punctuated by lulls and muttered curses as he changed magazines.
“GET DOWN, MATE!” Jimmy yelled as he backed down the short steps into the lifeboat and fired aft through the open door.
Howell rolled out of the coxswain’s chair to drop on top of him just as bullets shredded the unprotected fiberglass at the back of the canopy and tore through the coxswain’s chair where she’d been sitting seconds before.
“Sorry, Jimmy,” she said. “And thanks.”
Jimmy only nodded. “This ain’t good, ma’am. They stay back here on our ass, and we can’t steer. Plus we only got one shooting position, and they’ll have five or six guns on it. All they have to do is creep up close and start laying into us with those shotguns.”
No sooner had Jimmy spoken than the back fiberglass bulkhead behind the coxswain’s seat exploded as it was shredded by multiple loads of buckshot. Round after round tore through the bulkhead until all that was left was a ragged spiderweb of glass fibers. The coxswain’s chair was destroyed, and the steering wheel hung at a crazy angle. All the children were screaming and crying out, and she had to yell to be heard above the bedlam.
“It doesn’t matter now,” Howell said. “Nobody’s gonna be steering. But the engine is still running, so I hope—”
Another fusillade destroyed what was left of the fiberglass bulkhead, and debris rained down on their heads. When Howell looked up again, the throttle control was hanging by a single wire as the engine sputtered to a halt. Behind them, she heard the outboards cut back to a guttural rumble. They were there waiting, no doubt with all their guns trained on the lifeboat.
“Y’ALL THROW YOUR GUNS OVERBOARD AND WE’LL GO EASY ON YOU. BUT IF ANY MORE OF US GET HURT, Y’ALL ARE GONNA REGRET IT. THAT’S A PROMISE.”
“What we gonna do, ma’am?” Jimmy asked.
Howell thought a moment. “As long as we stay low below the steel plates, I think we’re safe enough. And they can shoot as many holes in us as they want, but they’re not likely to sink us with all the extra buoyancy there is in a lifeboat. I don’t think they’re too eager to come charging in and get shot either, so it’s a standoff as long as we’re still armed.”
“So what we gonna do?” Jimmy asked again.
Howell shrugged. “Stall and wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“The cavalry,” Howell said, reaching for the radio. “The ship’s less than three miles away now. They can send the patrol boat out for a quick punch in the face, then rush back to cover the ship—”
But Hughes had apparently anticipated the situation. She lowered the radio as a new sound penetrated the bedlam of the screaming children and praying women—twin outboards, and big ones. She’d hardly processed the sound when it was blotted out by the sweet tune of a large-caliber automatic weapon. They raised their heads in unison just in time to see the cons’ boats, and the cons in them, shredded by machine-gun fire. It was hard to watch, even though she had no doubts the men dying would have done the same to her, or worse.
She was still staring when the radio squawked.
“Mate? Georgia? Are y’all okay?” She recognized Torres’ voice.
“That you, Magician?”
“That’s me,” came the reply. “First you see ’em, then they’re dead. Any casualties? On our side, I mean?”
“We’re okay here,” Howell said, “but there are more cons coming downriver. A lot of them. Alvarez and Jones took some guys up to try to cover our escape. You have to help them.”
“Roger that,” Torres said. “Captain Hughes gave me fifteen minutes to bring y’all in, and I have ten left. Can you get back to the ship?”
“Don’t worry about us, Magician. The current is with us and we’ll paddle if we have to. Go help Alvarez, and hurry!”
***
Torres raced upriver at forty knots toward the sound of distant gunfire. It was measured at first, the intermittent three-round bursts of disciplined fire, but that soon dissolved into a continuous roar—fully automatic weapons or a whole lot of undisciplined shooters with semiautomatics. He had no doubt it was the latter.
The man beside him shook his head. “Sounds like a war.”
Torres nodded. “And as long as it keeps up, we know our guys are in the fight.”
He held that thought, an ear cocked to the sound of battle, straining to hear who might be carrying the day. But the disciplined fire was slacking, and the battle began to sound one-sided. Finally the firing stopped completely, a lull followed by separate individual shots. Torres’ blood ran cold. Executions?
The building roar of powerful engines replaced gunfire, growing louder as his boat flew upriver. Ahead, the river divided into two channels around an island, and racing toward him out of the left channel was an armada of small craft, perhaps twenty or thirty boats. He saw the muzzle flashes and heard a bullet whiz by his ear before he heard the shot itself.
“Let ’em have it,” he called to the bow gunner and was answered by the roar of the machine gun.
Heavy rounds tore into the approaching boats as if they’d hit a brick wall. The first wave stopped dead in the water, blasted to bits, and the following boats ran over the debris, either capsizing at speed or fouling their propellers.
It was over in seconds, with a few boats in the extreme rear turning to escape upstream while Torres circled what was left of the convict armada, his machine gunner blasting anything that moved. He saw a head surface to gulp air then submerge. He stopped, and as the boat drifted, the gunner turned back to him, his eyebrows raised in a question.
“We need intel,” Torres said. “I want a prisoner.”
The gunner nodded, and they floated silently, drifting down the river with the mass of debris. When the head didn’t reappear, Torres surveyed the debris field and pointed toward the hull of a flat-bottom aluminum boat floating upside down.
“Put a burst through the far end of that hull over there,” Torres said.
The gunner complied.
“WE’RE GONNA UNLOAD ON THAT HULL IF YOU DON’T COME OUT IN FIVE SECONDS. FIVE. FOUR. THREE …”
A head bobbed up beside the overturned boat. “Don’t shoot. I’m unarmed,” the man said.
“Swim over here, and don’t try anything funny or we’ll shred you. Got it?” Torres said.
The con swam over, and Torres ordered him to place his hands on the edge of the boat so the gunner could flex-cuff his wrists. Only then did they drag him into the boat and flex-cuff his ankles as well. They dumped him facedown in the bottom of the boat.
Torres started up the left channel around the island.
“Damn!” the gunner said. “Would you look at that?”
Drifting toward them on the current were scores of boats, many with bullet holes above the waterline, with dead cons sprawled in more than a few. Here and there along the west bank were more boats, obviously run aground by dying cons unable to control them.
The gunner shook his head. “Ain’t this something. But where the hell are Alvarez and Jones?”
Torres shrugged and crept up the channel, finding no sign of the Coasties or their companions. At the north end of the island, he turned back downstream via the eastern channel. As he neared the southern end of the little island, a man in Coast Guard overalls stepped out of the brush and waved. Relief washed over Torres as he nosed the patrol boat into the little beach.
The relief faded when he saw the look on Alvarez’s face.
“How bad?” Torres asked.
Alvarez took a deep breath. “Bad enough. Jones lost part of his ear and took another one in the shoulder, but I think he’ll be all right. Two other walking wounded, both arm wounds. But we … I … lost one. His body’s up on the barge.”
“Who?” Torres asked.
Alvarez looked away, gazing downriver. When he turned back, his eyes were glistening. “A really good guy,” he said. “Jimmy’s dad, Earl Gillespie.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
M/V Pecos Trader
Sun Lower Anchorage
Neches River
Near Nederland, Texas
Day 30, 6:45 a.m.
They buried Earl Gillespie on a ridge of slightly higher ground running along the edge of the marshy island next to the ship. They used their single body bag, and Kenny Nunez, the bosun, worked through the night building a coffin. Jimmy Gillespie was well-liked on board, and there was no shortage of volunteers to dig his father’s grave or help in any way possible to ease the burden on the Gillespie family.
Hughes scheduled the service for sunrise, with the shore party limited to family and those shipmates chosen to finish the burial. But everyone on board crowded the bow of Pecos Trader, standing in respectful silence while the brief ceremony played out below them. Everyone, that is, except Torres and a group of Coasties, who stood watch facing the river, alert to any threat.
Having never conducted a funeral, Hughes stuck to the Lord’s Prayer and the Twenty-Third Psalm. He sat with Mrs. Gillespie as the patrol boat ferried them the short distance back to the ship’s accommodation ladder.
“I’m sorry this was so quick and … basic, Mrs. Gillespie. I promise if … when things settle down, we’ll try to do better,” Hughes said.
Dorothy Gillespie shook her head. “Y’all did just fine, Captain. We appreciate what everyone’s doing. And I doubt things will settle down for a while yet, if ever. Earl liked the river, so he’ll be just fine here. If you want to make promises, just promise me I’ll be beside him when my time comes.”
Hughes swallowed hard and nodded. Dorothy Gillespie gave him a sad smile and reached over to pat his hand.
***
Hughes sipped coffee and glanced around the table at his council, noting strain and tension in each face. The events of the last day made it clear just how desperate their situation was.
“I’m thinking they saw the chance to grab hostages and tipped their hand,” Torres said. “No way they deployed that many boats so quickly unless they were already staged for something. Besides, that tracks with what our prisoner says.”
“Did you get any more out of him?” Hughes asked.
Torres shook his head. “He’s definitely a peon and dumber than a rock besides. But he told us they’ve been collecting boats, and the rumor is they’re going to attack very soon. It might actually be a good thing a few of the boats got away. None of these assholes strike me as heroes, and I doubt many of them will be eager to come charging up to the ship in an open boat now.”
“Any confirmation on numbers?” Hughes asked.
“Pretty much the same thing the girl from Trixie’s …”
The Coastie glanced nervously toward Gowan, but the chief engineer lowered his gaze to the table and said nothing.
“The girl from the woman’s house said,” Torres continued, “two thousand. But I suspect he’s just parroting whatever he’s heard. I doubt the dumb bastard could count to twenty-one without taking off his shoes and unzipping.”
Chuckles eased the tension, and Hughes nodded. “Be that as it may, we have to assume an attack is imminent, and that it will be a big one. What’s our head count now?”
Georgia Howell glanced down at her notes. “Assuming the entire original crew as shooters, plus the Coasties and the guys from the refugee group minus the wounded, we have forty—”
“Make that forty-three,” Laura Hughes said. “The girls and I can all handle firearms, and I’m sure a number of the other women can as well.”
“I stand corrected. We have plus forty-three shooters, which may exceed our gun inventory anyway.” Howell looked at Torres.
Torres checked his own notes and shook his head. “I think we’re okay there. We have eight M4s, the three AKs we took from the Cubans, three machine guns, also counting the one we took from the Cubans, two Barrett sniper rifles, and a few guns from Captain Hughes’ place, as well as a mixed bag the new folks brought in yesterday. But we scavenged the boats Alvarez and his guys shot up, and got about two dozen more, mostly shotguns, handguns, and ARs, along with a fair amount of ammo. We’ll be able to put a gun in the hand of anyone willing and able to use it.”
“What about the other stuff we took from the Cubans?” Hughes asked.
Torres shook his head. “I don’t see the grenades as being very useful unless the convicts actually get into the deckhouse and we’re trying to hold them at bay as we fall back—not a scenario I want to contemplate—and we only have four grenades anyway. As far as the RPG goes, we only have the one. I think they’re only accurate to around a hundred and fifty yards, and none of us have ever fired one, not to mention the fact the thing is like thirty-year-old Soviet surplus.” He paused. “But weapons aren’t really the problem.”
Hughes nodded. “Numbers.”
“Exactly,” Torres said. “It’s still forty or fifty shooters, many of them novices, against, depending on who you believe, up to two thousand convicts.”
“Suggestions?” Hughes asked.
“A few,” Torres said.
M/V Pecos Trader
Captain’s Office
Day 30, 10:15 a.m.
Hughes took another sip of coffee, his fifth cup of the day. He’d miss it when it was gone and thought about stretching it out, but it was one of the few bits of normalcy left, and he vowed to indulge himself as long as it lasted.
“How about the towboat guys?” Laura said. “Thirty-seven men would almost double our defensive garrison.”
Hughes shook his head. “Maybe, but they have no weapons, and we can’t arm more than a few of them. And with an attack imminent, there’s no way I can send out an escort to bring them in. The same with Kinsey. I can’t let anybody stumble into this mess without warning them. They just have to stay away until it’s settled, one way or another.”
“How are you going to warn Kinsey? He’s out of VHF range,” Laura said.
“I can’t, but I CAN reach Wellesley and warn him to stay put. He might be within VHF range of Kinsey, but even if he’s not, Kinsey has to pass right by him at Calcasieu Lock. He’ll be warned, one way or another.”
Laura nodded, and Hughes drained his cup and rose from his chair. “I’d best go up to try Wellesley.”
Warden’s Office
Federal Correction Complex
Beaumont, Texas
Day 30, 1:40 p.m.
“How many again?” Spike McComb demanded.
“Uh … sixty-seven,” Snag said, louder the second time.
“Sixty-seven boats? Your morons lost sixty-seven of my boats and didn’t bring back one frigging hostage?”
“It ain’t like they did it on purpose, Spike. I mean, they are mostly dead, after all,” Snag said. “And boats ain’t really the problem; there’s plenty of boats lying around to gather up. Hell, there’s one in every other garage.”
Spike smashed his desk with his fist, and Snag jumped.
“WELL, WHAT THE HELL IS THE PROBLEM, SNAG? WHY DON’T YOU TELL ME?”
Snag flinched, but for once he held his ground. “That machine gun, that’s what,” he said, and held up his hands to stop what he knew would be Spike’s immediate response.
“And don’t go calling me a whiny pussy,” Snag said. “That gun swept the boys off the water like a new broom, and there ain’t none of ’em too enthusiastic about bein’ the next targets. It don’t matter if we have FIVE thousand men if they cut us up b
efore we even get close.”
Spike glared at Snag. “And what’s your excuse for up by the shipyard and the railroad bridge where they shot the hell out of us? They didn’t have no machine gun there.”
“Yeah, but they had those sandbags to hide behind, and we didn’t have enough time to—”
A strange look crossed Spike’s face and he cut Snag off with a wave of his hand.
“Wh-what is it, Spike?” Snag asked. “The boys did the best—”
“Shut the hell up,” Spike said. “I’m thinking.”
Snag started to open his mouth again, but Spike silenced him with a glare. Then slowly, the corners of Spike’s mouth turned up into a smile.
“Thanks, shit brain,” Spike said. “It’s a good thing one of us around here can think. We still got those tugboats we captured and the turds who were driving ’em?”
Snag nodded. “The boats are down in Port Arthur, but they won’t do us no good. They’re slow as hell.”
“You let me worry about that. How about the boat drivers?”
Snag shrugged. “We threw ’em in the forced labor pool. I reckon they’re still there, if they’re alive. Why?”
“Go find one. I have an idea,” Spike said.
M/V Pecos Trader
Sun Lower Anchorage
Neches River
Near Nederland, Texas
Day 30, 5:20 p.m.
Hughes engaged the joystick of the bow thruster, eyes focused on Howell far away on the bow and leaning over the bulwark to peer at the water below. Howell’s fist shot up and Hughes immediately released the joystick and watched the bow of the Pecos Trader inch starboard a few feet more before stopping. He spoke into his radio.
“How’s it look, Mate?”
“I think we’re there, Captain,” she replied. “The bow is fifty feet off the island, and we’re stirring up mud.”
Hughes keyed his radio again. “How’s the stern looking?”
“I think we’re where you want, Captain,” the second mate said. “We’re maybe seventy-five or a hundred feet from the bank of the channel.”
Push Back: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (The Disruption Series Book 2) Page 33