Withûr We

by Matthew Bruce Alexander

  The freighter, with Tessa in white block lettering on the side, rose above them as they drew into its vicinity, motors humming and men shouting, spurred by adrenaline. Oliver veered right as they headed for the ship’s stern and eased down on the throttle. Not all the other boats executed their stops as neatly.

  One pilot waited too long to pull up and crashed into the side of the Tessa, sending two unlucky men flying into it. Two other boats ran into each other while braking and Alistair heard a couple splashes announcing men overboard. Though it was not clear exactly where they fell in, they gave gurgling, inchoate cries and splashed about in panic as the frigidity of the water seized them.

  “This is a goddamn mess!” Alistair cursed with a glare at Oliver.

  Oliver looked embarrassed and quickly moved to cover it. Waving down another boat near him he shouted, “Go help Ritchie’s boat.” The boat operator looked about and then, when he saw what Oliver was pointing at, waved once and made for the hapless vessel.

  Glowering at Alistair’s rebuke, Oliver guided his craft expertly next to the stern of the Tessa while Alistair readied a length of rope with a grappling hook on the end. He prayed for a decent throw from the other boats, and no injuries, as Brad, Oliver, Bob and Ryan stooped low while the line whizzed over their heads. Finally, he let it fly and it arced over the edge, the hook hitting the deck with a clang. He pulled it back and neatly caught it on the gunwale. Giving a couple of tugs to be sure, he stepped back and allowed the others to clamber up.

  “I’m going to help some of these other clowns,” he said with a slap to Oliver’s shoulder as the big man passed.

  The other boats were not faring as well. Most were still attempting to sidle up to the Tessa, either stopping too far short or smacking into it with a bone-rattling thump. They were not spaced particularly well, having bunched together in their rush to arrive quickly. A few managed to dock, but only two of those got their grappling hooks up and over. As it so happened, a boat had drawn up to the Tessa only a couple yards from Oliver’s boat and Alistair leaped from his stern to its bow. His landing unsettled it and one unbalanced rebel fell to his knees.

  “I’ll throw your hook,” he announced without ado and seized the rope from the hands of the stunned man who had been trying to get himself disentangled from his first attempt. Confidently, Alistair drew forth a length of rope and whirled it above his head. When he picked up the speed he required, he let it fly and, just like his first throw, it sailed true.

  After an insurance tug, Alistair climbed. Passing Oliver and Bob on the way up, he made it to the top of the Tessa only moments after Ryan Wellesley. With his feet firmly planted on the now sloping deck of the tipped ship, he grabbed his handgun, racked the slide, flipped off the safety, and, as the yellow and red flashing lights played over the scene, prepared to advance.

  Though he did not realize it, his muscular form, silhouetted against the red and yellow lights with his right arm holding his gun pointed towards the sky, was a moral boost to the haggard and faltering rebel group. There was experience and confidence in his posture, strength and determination in his form. Unbidden, the rebels drew near him, and when he left, several others were right behind. It was the magnetism of poise that attracted them.

  Tilted and slippery from the snowfall, the metal walkways forced them to step carefully. Looking always for cover and possible sniper positions, he led his band of men to a locked door with a single, head-size circular glass window. Gun in front, he closed in on the door, his finger on the trigger.

  When he reached it, he paused and listened, his left shoulder up against the wall and his gun in both hands. The ship’s motor was still running, kicking up water at the stern. The hum from the engine made everyone and everything on the ship vibrate. In the distance, voices were yelling and moaning and Alistair detected a couple screams but nothing immediately on the other side of the door.

  As the men behind him breathed heavily, as much from the excitement as from the exertion, he produced a small charge from his pocket that, with some putty, he stuck to the door near the handle. He gave a military signal with his free hand for the men behind him to back up but no one recognized it, so he gave them a more ordinary indication to scoot back. When they were a safe distance away, he grabbed his remote control and detonated the charge.

  There was a concussive blast followed an instant later by a deafening clang as a piece of metal was torn from the door and smashed into a wall. The solid iron door now swung loose on its hinges and smoke hung in the air. On the other side, still deep within the Tessa, a surge of new shouts followed the blast. Alistair entered, his troupe not far behind him.

  They were in a small hallway lined with doors like the one they had just destroyed. Pausing at each, he listened and put his eye up to the round window to peer into the room on the other side. Most were unoccupied but a mess as the crash scattered objects about. In one room he saw a prone form lying bleeding against a wall. Halfway up the slope of the long hallway there was a stairwell on the right hand side. Spiraling up and down, it presented the men with their first choice. Alistair approached with great care and found it was clear.

  “The others will be heading for the cargo holds,” he told the men as he turned to face them. For the first time he noticed Ryan Wellesley, eyes wide and exhilarated, mouth open as he breathed. “Let’s head up to the bridge. I want to knock out communication.”

  The men nodded, and Alistair studied them. Many were dirty and wore worn out winter clothes. Their faces were generally unshaved and filthy from living in the surrounding hills. They were breathing hard, flushed with adrenaline, and a few shifted from one unsteady foot to another. They were seven brave men, but he detected the nervousness of the novice.

  “Remember,” he told them, “we’ve got the upper hand. They’re rattled and unprepared for us. Be careful, but be confident.”

  More nods from the men and Alistair proceeded to ascend the tilted, narrow metal staircase. A chorus of echoing footsteps preceded them, and the metal even groaned under their weight. When they passed two stories, there came the quick rattle of automatic fire followed by the piercing sounds of the bullets careening off metal walls. The sounds came from behind, at the back of their group.

  “Report!”

  It was Wellesley, a few men back, who called up. “We saw a couple of ‘em running off.”

  “If they’re running leave them be. These are poor bastards caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. If they don’t resist, we don’t attack.”

  The men, startled, tensely held their weapons, jerking about at shadows and flickering lights.

  There was some murmuring from below. Alistair could not see them as they were hidden behind the curve of the stairs, but finally someone called up, “Yes, sir.”

  They reached the upper story without further incident. Just to the right of the stairwell was a large set of double doors that Alistair knew would be the bridge. Checking both directions, he sidled up to the thick, steel doors and peered into the room through the windows.

  There was a central station with a projection map sputtering like a flame struggling to stay alive. Leaning against its edges were two men, one of whom bore a Captain’s insignia. The other, perhaps his first mate, was bleeding down his forehead. Another man sat at one of the stations around the wall with a cloth held to his head. All three were armed.

  Alistair signaled that there were three total, all armed, and hoped his men would understand the message. He then fished out another charge and puttied it to the door before moving back to the stairwell. He extended the remote into the hall, pressed the button and once more there was a blast. This time a section of roof was shaken loose and came crashing to the hallway floor.

  “Now!” Alistair shouted and he leaped over the wreckage and onto the bridge. “Don’t move!” he bellowed, his voice strong and commanding as he had been trained.

  The wounded man who had been sitting down was now fumbling for his gun while the captain wa
s sprawled out on the floor, shaking his head to clear it. The first mate was down on one knee but reaching for a weapon. There was some indecision on their faces, but when seven more armed rebels poured through the doorway the choice became easy.

  “No one needs to die here tonight,” said Alistair, his voice dropping only a little. “Ryan, take their weapons and get them tied up.” Ryan quickly moved to comply. “You,” he said with a curt nod at another rebel, “keep an eye out from the windows.” The man nodded and moved to the stations to look out at the ship from his high perch. Alistair commanded two others to guard the door and stairwell and then, when the three crewmen were disarmed and bound to chairs, felt a creeping triumph he cautioned himself not to turn into cockiness.

  “I need the bill of lading and a schematic of this vessel,” he informed the Captain. “And don’t play games. We are going to make off with whatever we want; the sooner you help us out, the sooner we’ll be gone and you can get medical attention for your men.”

  The captain’s baleful stare did not change, but he said, “It would be quicker if you untied me.”

  Alistair nodded to the rebel at his side and the man cut the captain loose.

  “What the hell did I tie him for?” grumbled Ryan.

  The Captain moved to the center projector and typed in a code. A moment later the computer spit out a paper that Alistair snatched up and stuffed into his pocket.

  “Get them off the bridge. Put them in another room on this floor,” he commanded and the recipient of the order hastened to obey. “And retie the captain, Wellesley.”

  As the others left, he went to the communication station and set another charge. He set another at the back up station and then spared a moment to scan the horizon from the bridge. The snowfall was gaining in intensity and several flurries battered against the cracked glass, obscuring vision. As far as he could tell, there was nothing yet on its way from the city, whether by air or sea. Temporarily satisfied, he backed out of the bridge where the men were waiting for him.

  “Cover your ears,” he said and they moved farther away. A moment later, a double blast rent the bridge and the windows shattered outward.

  “Are we going to leave them?” asked Wellesley with a nod to the room where they had deposited the captives.

  “They’ll be rescued soon enough,” Alistair replied. “Let’s hope it’s not too soon. Now get down to the cargo.”

  The Tessa, once a ship of frantic sailors scrambling to prevent a crash, was now plunged into an even greater state of confusion. As the band descended they heard shouts and gunfire and an occasional explosion. The farther they went, the smokier became the air inside as it filled with the aftermath of the violence. Through the red and yellow tinged smoke they went until finally they emerged from the central tower and onto the main deck.

  The wind had picked up and now whipped snowflakes into their eyes. Alistair saw Clever Johnny, flanked by a few others, standing at the edge of the cargo hold door directing men. The sound of desultory gunfire came from the bow, and the muzzle flashes flickered. An occasional form could be seen darting across some walkway or other, occasionally firing at an unseen form somewhere else.

  “Orders?” asked Wellesley as Alistair observed the scene with frustration.

  “This is going to get out of hand quickly. Yeah, Ryan, let Clever Johnny know he is a sitting duck if someone gets a good sniper position. Looks like he’s got someone trying to rig the power box and get the cargo door open. Find out why since we’re not using the crane.”

  Alistair took a moment to scan the horizon but still detected no rescue attempt. Returning his attention to Clever Johnny, he saw Oliver and Wellesley arguing with him. He rushed to their sides.

  “We have to have this,” Johnny lustfully said.

  “You think I don’t know that?” said Oliver. “We have to go below, like we planned.”

  “It was a damn fool decision to use the crane anyway,” said Alistair as he approached. “Especially without securing the area first.” Clever Johnny glowered under the rebuke but Alistair plunged on. “We head below as planned. Leave six men here on deck to make sure no one follows us below. According to the ship’s schematic—”

  “We never got the ship’s schematic,” Clever Johnny insisted almost petulantly.

  “— speak for yourself… according to the schematic,” Alistair continued, unfolding what he had printed and studying it through the swirling snow flakes, “there is no way to the lower holds from the bow of the ship. If we can keep them holed up there we can concentrate on clearing out resistance below.”

  “There’s a couple guys,” said Oliver. “They’re armed and there’s no getting through them to the main cargo hold.”

  “Yes there is,” Alistair replied in a matter-of-fact tone and he pointed to a group of barrels upended when the Tessa tilted. “Haul a couple of those down with us.”

  ***

  It was only a few minutes later when Alistair, Oliver, Clever Johnny and a few other rebels reached the barricade, whose presence was announced to them by a rattle of gunfire and the sparks of the bullets as they tore into the metal walls. Alistair waited with his back to the wall, inches from the ninety degree turn which would bring him into the fire of the two or three men who guarded their ship’s cargo. Oliver and Clever Johnny, both breathless and looking with hope to Alistair, faced him with their backs to the opposite wall, their feet bracing against the incline. He gave an order that was relayed through the ranks and moments later heard the sound of the wooden barrels being rolled through the passageway. The four men rolling the two barrels reached the corner and stopped, looking at Alistair expectantly.

  He exchanged a look with Oliver. “Would you like to explain it to them?” Without waiting for a reply he knelt down and affixed the putty and a charge to one end of each barrel.

  “This is your last chance to surrender!” Oliver’s great voice bellowed through the halls. “You’ll not be harmed or even taken hostage. We are getting into the cargo hold one way or another!”

  There was a brief pause. “Get stuffed!”

  Oliver looked to Alistair who did not bother looking up. “You know your part,” said the ex-marine and stood up.

  Clearly nervous, Oliver positioned himself behind the first barrel while the others readied their weapons.

  “Aim high,” Alistair said. “We don’t want to take off the top of his head.”

  “It’s too handsome a head to be ruined,” Oliver said and managed a smile.

  “Go!” said Alistair, and four guns were stuck out into the hallway and began to fire. Oliver had no trouble rolling the barrel and, with a tremendous heave, he hurled it down the hallway, a process greatly aided by the ship’s tilt.

  No sooner was his job finished than he ducked back into safety around the corner and Clever Johnny set off the charge. The concussive force, contained in enclosed space, hurtled through the hall and knocked a couple rebels to the ground. Alistair, already in position behind the second barrel, rolled it out around the corner. Oliver, Johnny and a few others followed, guns ready. The men fired over his head as they followed him and, half way there, he heaved the barrel forward and then hit the deck. The others followed suit, all covering their ears as Clever Johnny activated the charge and another blast rocked the innards of the Tessa.

  Something hit Alistair’s skull as he lay face down on the metal flooring and he felt the wet warmth of blood seep through his hair. Ignoring it, he sprang to his feet and charged into the chamber. He entered ready to fire but found he did not need to. Three men were sprawled out on the floor nearly senseless. Holding up a hand to slow down the swarm of rebels who now burst into the chamber, he went to the hatch door and planted another charge. Clever Johnny, meanwhile, had the three prisoners bound and taken.

  Alistair cleared the room and detonated the charge. After it went off, he rushed to the steel double doors and quickly threw them open. He shouted at the men to move quickly, and when the designated loaders
filed in, he was right behind with his bill of lading, weaving in and out of the wooden crates, searching only for the choicest supplies.

  When he found some, and had summarily dismissed a few suggestions from a couple others, he had the men clear a space along the side of the hull. He then set about the delicate task of applying more charges so as to blow an exit hole through which the supplies could be loaded onto the rebel boats outside. First banging the metal siding to determine where the surface of the sea was, he next plotted the positions for his charges, taking care not to place too many lest the resulting explosion spread to the volatile material only a few yards away.

  When the charges were placed, he retreated to a safe distance and yet again set them off. He would later reflect that it could have gone worse, but it certainly could have been better. The first result after a hole was blown in the hull was that a piece of metal was shot into the hull of one of the other boats waiting outside. At the same time, water slopped over the bottom edge of the hole and even poured through at times. The hole itself, at least, would be of an adequate size.

  “Alright let’s move! Move! Move! Move!” he commanded and the men instantly obeyed, instinctively forming a line between the pile of weaponry and the newly formed aperture. He rushed to the opening and waved at the boats outside.

  “One at a time now! Form a line. Come on! Let’s get this done!”

  The process of getting the boats together was not a smooth one and he ached with impatience as he watched them bungle about. The driver of the sinking boat needed rescue, and too many boats banged into each other, the pilots being unused to the fluid movement and lack of brakes that was part of steering a water vessel. With the help of some paddles and ropes they were finally able to get into some sort of order and eventually the goods were moved out.

  Alistair helped with unloading the crates for a time before he moved to his next task. A brief search through the stockpile yielded the item he was searching for. He carefully extracted the bomb from its packaging and set it down on a nearby crate. His original intention was to blast a hole in the floor of the hull but that now had a half inch of water. He settled for a smooth corner between the wall and the floor and affixed the bomb to that surface.