Then the zap of a stunner ripped out of the silence. Feinberg jumped, jerked, and flopped to the deck. Jomo, smothering a yawn, strolled out of the shadows. The sentries straightened up and did their best to look as if they’d been giving Feinberg only enough lead to condemn himself. Jomo favored them with barely a sneer. He snapped his fingers and pointed at Feinberg’s body.
“Pick up that garbage, he said. “And throw it over the side.”
The sentries paused for only a moment, then hastened to comply.
Feinberg’s body hit the water with a loud splash, floated a moment, then turned over and sank. A brief flurry of bubbles marked his fall.
Jomo slung the stunner back on his shoulder and strolled back to his air-mattress on the ship’s stern, never once looking back. The sentries watched him go, none of them daring to mention that they’d just lost the boat’s single experienced pilot.
“Goddamn-it, gimme a hand here” Brodski panted, limping behind the others. “Got a damn bad leg.”
“Can’t wait for you,” Van Damm retorted from somewhere up ahead among the trees.
“We’ll be there when they come,” agreed Muda, pattering along after Van Damm quick and sure as a goat among the thick foliage, for all that she was bent nearly double under the weight of her own gun and ammo and the swimming gear too.
“Here, lemme help.” Joan MacDonald shifted the ballast-weights on her back, took Brodski by one arm across her shoulders, and half-carried him through the screen of trees.
Brodski bit his lip, used his cane as much as he could, and didn’t complain.
Benny Donato worked his wrench under a blanket-shrouded light, tightening the seal-bolt to the last turn. “It’s ready,” he puffed. “That makes two of them. I have them set for fifteen minutes before dawn.” He turned off the flashlight and crawled out from under the blanket, grumbling about the dangers and inconveniences of bomb-making, and why this couldn’t have been finished in his nice comfortable shop in the fort.
“You get the packing tight enough, Benny?” Falstaff cut in on him. “I’d hate to have them leak.’
“Any tighter and I’d break the case.”
“Then let’s get them down to the customers.”
“Easy for you to say. These damned things are heavy.” Falstaff wasn’t the quietest person moving in the dark, and Donato was little better, but they didn’t have to travel far. Mary Harp met them with a soft whistle, and guided them to where the rope stretched down to the river. They bent and unloaded their packages and tied them onto the rope. Another whistle toward the water, and the men turned to hurry back through the trees, their mission accomplished.
“Let us know if you don’t get the mines to them in an hour,” Donato tossed to Mary, looking at his watch. “I hope I don’t have to take those fool things apart again. That’d be a real bitch.”
“Don’t worry so much,” Falstaff panted, tugging at his arm. “We have other work to do. I’ve got confidence in those two and the women with them.
“Well, maybe...” Donato grumped. “But cross your fingers about those mines.”
From under the greenthoms on the east bank of the river, Brodski and Van Damm peered out with their optics, studying the sleeping ship. “Hmm, looks all right, Ski. Your plan better work.” “It will. Besides, what else do you have to do on a cold morning like this?” Brodski said, rubbing Blue Tree sap on his exposed body.
“Look up an Island woman and promise to protect her for the rest of her life.”
“I never believed you were that much of a politician. You ready to swim?”
“Ja.” Van Damm glanced at the dark water, and shivered. “It ain’t gonna get no warmer. Let’s go.”
Brodski gave two tugs on the line, and both men walked gingerly into the water. The bags of rocks that hung from their belts held their feet on the bottom, and the river’s current was negligible at this point. As the water crept over their heads, they held up the plastic tubes that would allow them to breathe. Aside from the cold, the work was easy so far.
Following the shore line until they felt the distance knots in the rope, they pulled their heads clear of the water and looked downstream. Against the dark bulk of The Last Resort, they could see the binnacle-light in the chart-house. Nobody was moving on deck.
Brodski patted his way along the rope toward his pre-assigned position. “Hell of a mess,” he muttered. “Me, a mud Marine, playing frogman!”
“Ribbit, ribbit,” Van Damm grumbled back. “I like this no better than you. Cold water, no proper gear and painted blue to boot”
“Let’s get on with it,” Brodski whispered through his chattering teeth.
They waded silently downstream until the bow of The Last Resort loomed above them. They patted over the rough wood surface, hunting for the proper spot.
Brodski moved down the hull until he felt the warm water of the engine’s cooling exhaust. Now, just five arm-lengths more, he considered. He could be a little long in his measurement, but too short would be disastrous. He gave the hull an extra forearm-length for luck and pressed the flat of the mine against the side of the fishing boat. He counted to ten, waiting for the glue to set, and again added a little more for luck.
Done. Brodski walked slowly toward the stem, waited for a forty-second eternity until a touch on his right arm--and another on his right bun--announced that Van Damm had reached him. With another signal-tap, they half-swam/half-walked toward the agreed-upon point around the downstream hook of the island. The deepening mud told them when they’d reached it, whereupon they headed towards shore. Neither of them spoke another word until they were up against the greenthorn hedge on Jane’s Island.
“Did yours stick?” Van Damm asked, scraping water off his skin.
“On time, and like advertised. How about yours?”
“I thought I was going to have to piss on it to make it work!” Van Damm snapped with almost enough emphasis to make it noticeable five meters away.
“Well, just so long as it stuck. Let’s move.”
Unmindful of the scratches, they lifted the mass of the natural barbed wire and crawled under it.
“The towels should be on our right.”
“Ribbet!” challenged a voice ahead of them. “How high’s the water?”
‘Knee deep!” replied Brodski, in his best frog voice.
“Knee deep,” Van Damm echoed, right behind him.
“How do you manage to keep that Afrikaner accent on a frog croak?” Brodski asked.
“N-natural talent,” Van Damm replied through clacking teeth.
A feminine giggle answered them. Soft footsteps pattered down to the hedge.
Van Damm and Brodski traded invisible grins in the dark.
They were greeted with warm towels--and warm female arms, and a kiss each (who can prove anything the dark?), and were led uphill.
“Heroes’ welcome,” Van Damm muttered.
“Patience, Van. It gets better”
When they reached what seemed to rival the inside of a cow for darkness, Jane’s voice asked, “Did you do it?”
“If we didn’t, it’s the devil to pay with the cook out to lunch!” Brodski replied. “One thing’s, going for us though; if one mine falls off, it’s liable to do more damage than one on the hull. They’re in damned shallow water.”
“Good. I mentioned the tradition of the divers’ return, didn’t I?”
“Right here,” came Makhno’s voice, followed by the sound of liquid pouring into cups. “Divers’ return, or death to us all,” he said, lifting his glass.
As whiskey, it was piss-poor; as simple blood-warmer, it was right on target. Brodski and Van Damm gulped it gratefully.
After dressing, they shook hands. “I’ll see you when it’s over, Van, “ said Brodski.
“Ja, you’ll owe me drinks if this doesn’t work.”
“And I’ll pay up, if either of us is still alive.”
They parted company in the dark, and went their separate ways.
>
It was just before sunrise when the charges went off.
They blew a large hole in the forward hold of The Last Resort, and one in the aft net stowage. With one hole to port and one to starboard, she sank quickly and on an even keel--leaving only the wheel-house above water.
Of the troops aboard, half a dozen were knocked into the water by the initial blast. The rest, including the two deckhands, stayed long enough to realize that The Last Resort was sinking fast--then grabbed gear they could reach, and slid off into the chilly water.
Jomo, after a final furious look at the sinking boat, was last to leave. He found the water shallow enough that he could wade, holding his stunner over his head. He shouted at the others to do likewise, keep those precious enforcers dry, but wasn’t sure they heard.
The water ended at a bare rock cliff-face, too steep to climb, especially in the dark.
There was no help for it; the survivors had to wade along the cliff until they came to easier land. Jomo bellowed and chivied them to the left, recalling that the land had sloped sooner toward the east side of the island.
The Simbas groggily complied, wading through the cold, swift-running water. One of The Last Resort’s deck-hands tried to sneak off to the right, and Jomo shot him. The rest of the survivors picked up their pace, trying to see rather than feel their way along the steep shore in the dim light. At length the water grew shallower, and the outline of vegetation smeared above the greenthorn.
The survivors clambered up the narrow beach of stones and started pushing into the greenthorn hedge just as Byers’ Star peeped over the horizon, silhouetting them against the background of the gleaming river.
Directly ahead of them, half a dozen women stood up behind the greenthorn hedge and fired at them, from less than five meters away, with shotguns.
At least six of the Simbas went down in the first volley, and the second came an instant later. The survivors turned and ran, a few back out into the water, the rest to the left along the narrow pebble-beach. Gunfire followed them.
The Simbas, some of them bleeding profusely, ran into the river and started screaming. The River Jacks had found them...there was a flurry in the water where the “fish” fed. The worrying of the bodies pulled them into deeper water.
Two men raised empty arms and shouted promises to surrender. Jomo, cursing, shot both of them. A shotgun blast tore the ground beside him, narrowly missing his foot. He dropped and rolled under the nearest cover--which was the greenthorn hedge. From where he lay among the thorns, he couldn’t see if anyone else followed his example.
On the other side of the hedge he heard a woman’s voice snap: “They’re running down the east bank! Come on over and help us pick ‘em off!” Another female voice replied, distant and staticky from a radio: “Soon as we can, Lou. Keep after ‘em ‘til then.”
Two ideas occurred to Jomo just then: that this island just might be the rumored Land of Women, and that he’d best keep quiet until those shotgun-toting slits ran past him on the other side of the hedge. He muffled his breathing and lay very still.
Jomo, hearing the battle run past him, peered under the hedge. He couldn’t see anyone through the thick and thorny foliage, but he did note that the hedge was mostly horizontal branches.
He poked experimentally with his stunner barrel, and saw that the branches lifted easily. Damn, this was his way out! He lifted the branch, crawled under it, and came out on the other side of the hedge. Beside the hedge lay a path.
Jomo followed it, going uphill, away from the armed women and the running battle, keeping low. As he ran, he could hear the sounds of his Simbas being slaughtered. Never mind them; all he could think about was finding cover, some safe place to rest. He was cold, wet, and more frightened than he’d been in years. If this was the legendary Land of Women, he no longer wanted any part of it. Damn-it, they didn’t fight fair!
The last of the Simbas were quickly picked off by the mercs or the women with them. One or two tried the river but the “Jacks” made a quick and messy finish to them.
Jomo studied the greenthorn hedge crossing his path--and the path leading right into it. He poked at the hedge with his boot and a whole section of it lifted. He smiled bitterly, and crawled under the hedge.
A quick look showed the path went further uphill. He chose to follow it, move further away from the shore and all those hunting bitches. There was better cover in this forest, anyway.
The path let him out in a planted field whose crops grew taller than his head. It promised good cover; he started to sneak through it.
He was less than five yards into the field when he noticed the odor and shape of the leaves. He stopped, stared, then burst out laughing.
“It’s Ganja! Growing here on Haven...”
Then he realized that euph-leaf wasn’t a local herb at all. It was nothing but good old marijuana, grass, hemp--growing right here on an island full of women, and from what the sat-map had showed him, there were plenty of cultivated fields around here, maybe most of them growing hemp. What a prize!
If he could only get back to Docktown with the news, he knew he could raise a large enough army to come back and take the island.
Brodski and Van Damm met near the path in the converging hedges above the water.
They’d been giving “last mercy” to the wounded gangsters on the field. They started up, looking at each other--then recognized the lack of expression on each other’s faces. Both shared distaste for the business.
“Have you seen Jomo?” Brodski snapped, sounding angry.
“No,” Van Damn answered. “How about you?”
“No luck. Let’s check the boat; he might still be in the wheelhouse.”
“Good idea. Big Lou will take care of the rest here.”
“Alert her that there might be stragglers from the beach,” Van Damm warned.
“Amen.” Brodski shivered and turned away. “Their land, their fertilizer.... Shit.”
As the two mercs plodded to the side of the river, their radios crackled to life.
“Where are you, Señor Owen?” came the question. “Are you and Señor Brodski all right?”
“All’s secure here, Granny. Tell Jane we’re going to check the boat for signs of Jomo. We haven’t found him yet. Could you send the Bitch to take us to the wreck?”
“I’ll relay Captain Makhno to you. We shall keep watch for Jomo from up here. Señora Jane says, do not be too late for breakfast. Granny, out.”
“Just like a woman.” Van Damm laughed. “The world can be falling apart around them, but their major concern is that you get to the table on time.”
“So what’s more important than survival? And what’s more valuable to survival than food? Let’s get a move on, Van.”
Crouching and creeping along the path beside the second ring hedge, Jomo worked his way northward. If he could get safe far from the battle, he could maybe swim the river, the far bank, hike his way back to Docktown. One of those squatters along the river had to have a rowboat, or raft, or some damn thing that would float--not to mention supplies for the journey. Or maybe, if there was time, he could chop enough wood from the wreck of The Last Resort to make a raft, find enough food to hold him while the raft floated across river.
In any case, the hunters were least likely to be back at the point.
Little Ester had insisted on following the two mercs, and Makhno had no complaint. The Black Bitch, engines roaring wide open, hauled them up to the point in a few minutes’ time. Makhno circled the tiny harbor. Nothing was moving.
“Well, that leaves ship and shore,” said Brodski, centering his optic on the smoking hulk. “The only man in the wheelhouse is the corpse of the pilot. There’s no sign of life aboard.”
“Then we should go back to the landing,” Van Damm insisted. “We may still have some unfinished business.”
“I’ll pull in at the east corner,” said Makhno, heading the Bitch around, “right where the hedge starts. They couldn’t have gotten ashore any s
ooner than that.”
They grounded just under the start of the hedge, got out, hiked the branches aside and began searching uphill.
Little Ester was following Van Damm, carrying her shotgun at high port, when she saw a leg move under the orange-berry bush.
The roar of her shotgun brought the men around with weapons pointed.
“It’s okay,” Ester chirped, smiling. “I got ‘im in the head.”
Van Damm checked the body and pulled it out to the open. “We owe you one, little sister,” he said. “Hmm, if this one got through the hedge, we can assume others did, too.”
Ester took a look at the man she had killed, bit her lip, then hurried into the bush. The sounds of her stomach emptying came back to them.
Brodski resolutely turned away. “How many do you think could have made it through?” he asked.
“We have to assume that Jomo did, since we have not found his body.” “That’s what I like about you, Van; you’re such an optimist.”
Jomo had stopped for a moment as nature called him, when he heard the shotgun blast below. He dived for cover beneath the hedge, not waiting to zip his pants, and peered back toward the shore.
Below him he saw a hunting-party searching the forest-belt, beating their way slowly southward. Below them, beyond the hedge, the zodiac was nosed into shore.
Jomo smiled hugely. The answer to all his troubles gleamed black on the beach: the famous Black Bitch! It couldn’t be difficult to run, and it was the fastest boat on Haven. He checked his .44 pistol and started back down the slope.
Brodski and Van Damm had spread out keeping Ester in the line between them, and were working their way through the forest, each hoping to catch Jomo alone. They had plans for him.
Makhno, seeing them go, decided to leave the search in their hands and head uphill. It was time to check in with Jane and get the latest report.
“We didn’t get off free,” Jane grimly informed him.
“They shot back, not just with the stunners. Muda’s dead, and who’s going to tell her son? Minh got a little too enthusiastic, showed herself, and caught a bad one high in the chest. She probably won’t make it. Tall Lou got clipped in the leg; she says it isn’t bad, but knowing her, it’ll probably leave her lame.”
War World: Discovery Page 36