by James Axler
Toulalan’s smile was forced. He didn’t like his plan being dissected. “We have the LAVs.”
“You lost your fighting LAV back in Borden. You know they’re vulnerable. They’re as slow as ducks paddling in water, and the turret can only point in one direction at a time. If the pirates are as determined as Goose says, they can swarm them with canoes, get enough men on top they can tip them and sink them before they reach land. The 25 mm on mine is small. I could waste every last shell I got and still not make that hole you need. Your LAV is an engineering vehicle. All it’s got is a machine blaster.”
“You pick my plan apart well, Ryan,” Toulalan said begrudgingly. “But perhaps that is why I invited you to this council. As Six asked, tell me you have a good plan.”
“I don’t have a good plan.” Ryan smiled bleakly. “Just a better one.”
Everyone at the table leaned forward.
“We took some high explosives from the Diefenbunker. Did you?”
“Yes!” Toulalan nodded. “The catapults! We build bombs!”
Ryan looked at McKenzie. “Are you good with those catapults?”
“It is a new skill…” He sighed. “Better with the ballistas.”
Ryan nodded. “We aren’t going to build bombs. J.B.’s going to make demo charges, and someone is going to have to go set them.”
The brutal lines of Six’s face twisted in question. “A land assault?”
“Tactical assault,” Ryan corrected him. “Covered by what was called naval gunnery in predark times.”
“Naval gunnery…” McKenzie almost smiled. “I like that.”
Ryan flipped the map over and drew a remarkably accurate sketch of the Queen. “We switch out the catapult and put my LAV on the forward observation deck.” Everyone except J.B met this with shocked looks. Ryan continued. “With the LAV on the prow we can engage the entire lock from fort to fort and all the way across. Sweeping anything that needs it with the cannon, the coax and the machine blaster on top. Its main job will be covering fire.”
Toulalan sighed. “My catapults…”
“My catapults,” McKenzie stated.
“Aren’t going do us much good on the loading ramp,” Ryan said. “Even if we didn’t need it closed to steam forward, the crews would be cut to pieces.”
Doc suddenly stepped away from the porthole and tapped the stern of the Queen in Ryan’s picture. “Place the catapults here and here. On the rear observation deck, but facing forward, one with a line of fire to port and one to starboard.”
Ryan smiled.
McKenzie threw up his hands. “I spent weeks making the traversing plates! How are we to turn them?”
Doc blinked uncomprehendingly for several moments. For a while Ryan thought Doc might have lost it again. It turned out Doc wasn’t uncomprehending, he was just incredulous. “My good Captain, your men are sailors, are they not?”
McKenzie regarded Doc very dryly. “Last I heard.”
“Well then, I gather they have had some experience hauling on a rope and heaving enormously heavy objects?”
McKenzie turned his bemused gaze on his first mate. “Mr. Smythe, you and the lads ever hauled on a rope before? Maybe pushed something heavy?”
A slow smile spread across the first mate’s face. He flexed forearms big as bowling pins. “Once or twice in our careers, Captain.”
A few welcome laughs broke the tension in the room.
“Yes, good, very well then.” Doc flipped the map and began pointing all over the place. “Once within range, the catapults will engage the forts on either side, and anything else that begs to have a very large rock flung at it, and, firing from the back deck, the catapults and their crews shall have a measure of protection from returning fire.”
Ryan looked at Doc steadily. “What about accuracy?”
McKenzie drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Again, not what it could be, and we practiced firing from the bow, head-on. Now it sounds like we’re firing from the stern.”
Doc waved a dismissing hand. “Well, unlike your autocannon or the ballistae, which fire line-of-sight, the catapults hurl their missiles at a steep arc. So, in a sense, it does not really matter where the catapults are positioned. I realize your projectiles are most likely not completely uniform, but, given observation of a few flings, one could make a reasonable assessment of the standard range and trajectory. From there, given the known speed of the Queen’s forward progress, a pocket watch, the grace of God and some Kentucky windage, a man with a reasonable knowledge of mathematics should be able to make an educated guess as to the catapult projectile’s projected line of fall. Should we require direct fire we can calculate—”
“Doc,” Ryan said.
Doc blinked. “Yes, Ryan?”
“You just became Captain of Catapults.”
Doc suddenly blushed. “Oh, well then. Capital. Glad to be of service.”
Six looked between the picture of the Queen and the picture of the Soo Locks. “So, I gather the men who deploy to set the charges will go in the engineering LAV off the back ramp?”
Ryan nodded. “That’s the way I figure it. If for any reason the charges don’t quite get the job done, the LAV’s got a winch and a crane. We can do the rest of the demolition the hard way if we have to.”
Six leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “And who is going in the LAV to deploy these plas-ex charges?”
Ryan smiled. “You.”
“Ah.”
“Me,” he continued, “and Jak. I’ll drive it. If I get chilled, Six, you bring it home. LAV holds three crew and seven-plus gear in the cabin. I’ll need seven volunteers. Starting with Goose and Blacktree.”
“But, Ryan!” Toulalan objected. “They’re our scouts!”
“If we don’t make it through the locks, we won’t be needing scouts. Besides, they’re the only ones who have already been through the locks. They know it better than anybody here.”
“Goose?” Ryan said, looking at the scout.
Goose gazed wonderingly at the sketches. “Jeez, busting the Soo Locks. Sure would be something. People be talking in the lodges about that for years. Talk about the men who did it forever.” He shook his head again. “Count some wicked good coup on that.”
Blacktree nodded once. “Yup.”
You could feel the momentum building in the room. Ryan laid out the rest of his plan. “Our group has experience with explosives. Jake and I will lead the demo team. Six, I want you to stay with the LAV to defend it and in case we need the crane or the winch, and I need a man who can give us covering fire with the machine blaster on top.”
Six nodded. “Sylvan and édouard.”
Toulalan watched the plan come together. “You’re still short by three.”
McKenzie turned to his first mate. “Mr. Smythe, you’re volunteering.”
Mr. Smythe didn’t seem to mind much. “Yes, Captain.”
“Pick two people you like for the job and volunteer them, as well. Someone who’d enjoy helping Mr. Six with the winch and the crane, and someone wicked with a blaster to help with the covering fire.”
“Yes, Captain. I bet Loadmaster’s Mate Timms and Miss Tamara will be real glad to hear they been volunteered.”
“Very good, Mr. Smythe.”
Ryan recapped the plan. “J.B. fights the LAV on the forward deck. Doc fights the catapults on the back. The captain fights the ship and his crewmen cut the timber chains. Six, Jak and I take the lock. Captain, I’d like at least two canoes with fighting crews ready to deploy off the back ramp just in case something unexpected comes up.”
“I have two whaleboats,” the captain suggested.
“Even better. Loud Elk, I’d like to put you and yours in one of them.”
The First Nations warrior liked it. “Good.”
“The most dangerous part will be crashing into the lock. We’re going to be slowed to a crawl, in a picture-perfect cross fire, and they’re going to be firing down into us. Yoann, I want you to dismount the machine blasters from the wags and put their crews wherever the captain wants them. We’re going to need every crew and convoy man without a job to do on the rails firing back. We’ll clear a space in the middle of the cargo hold. That’s where Mildred and Krysty will set up the aid station. Captain, you got a healer?”
“We got a saw doc who ain’t half bad when he’s sober.”
“One other thing, Captain. If it looks like the locks aren’t going to fall, don’t worry about us. Get your ship out of there.”
McKenzie leaned forward and put his finger on the map of Canada. “You don’t need to worry about that, but if it happens, take your iron wag. Head for the Trans-Canada if you can. There’s a fishing ville about seventy-five klicks east of the locks called Thessalon. I’ll wait for you there, two days, and your people will have my protection for as long as they want it. You have my word.” The captain stared back down at the map and the sketches. You could hear the wheels turning in his mind as he contemplated a thousand contingencies, but it was clear he liked what he was hearing.
“Best plan I heard all day,” he concluded. “Best thing I heard since Thorpe and his rad-pest pirate sons of bitches closed the canal.”
Toulalan sighed. “So, Six, are you happy with the plan now?”
All eyes turned on Vincent Six.
“I was happier with Venus in furs back in Val-d’Or.” Six gave Ryan another grudging look of admiration. “But I’ll admit this plan has gotten better.”
Captain McKenzie rose. “Mr. Smythe, it’s going to be hard as the hobs of hell to get that iron wag up on the promenade, and we may need beams to brace it. I want that done at port on Manitoulin.”
“Yes, Captain.”
McKenzie gazed toward the porthole and the sinking sun. “We’ll weigh anchor here and stay in open water tonight. Give Dr. Tanner his catapult demonstration while we’re at it. Tonight we rest. Tomorrow we make every arrangement except raising the LAV and sail into Manitoulin looking mean. There won’t be no shore leave on the island. We’re running drills until every man knows his job. Yoann, I need you to do the same.”
“But of course, Captain.”
“Mr. Smythe, I want everything done and to weigh anchor at Manitoulin by noon.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Everyone else, get drunk, get laid, do whatever you’re going to do. It’s all drilling after Manitoulin and then its gonna be a fight.”
The captain rose and the meeting broke up. J.B. paused at the door. Boo Blacktree stood by the table staring down at the maps and plans. The big scout’s fingers unconsciously tapped at the bow that hung by his side.
J.B. stared at the antiquated weapon. “Bow, huh?”
Blacktree slowly raised his head. He spent long moments considering this observation. “Yup.”
“Bows,” J.B. conceded, “never jam.”
Blacktree chewed that over. “Nope.”
J.B. was a man of few words, except when it came to discussing weapons. Then he became downright chatty. Boo Blacktree’s monosyllabic answers were giving even J.B. a run for his money. “Don’t trust blasters much?”
“Nope.”
“Failed you before?”
“Yup.”
J.B. nodded at the Thompson Center, single-shot blaster in Blacktree’s belt. “So why that?”
Blacktree stared, stone-faced at the Armorer, who almost thought he wasn’t going to answer until he suddenly spoke. “Worm insurance.”
J.B. blinked. “Yeah?”
“Yup.” Blacktree ran an affectionate finger over the wood of his bow. “Man or beast, worm-alive, you can take them with this, first time. But if you ain’t quick, then they get up their second time. Worm dead.”
J.B. remembered the porkers he’d killed outside Borden rising up like thousand-pound puppets all too well. Blacktree drew his blaster and broke open the action. He pulled out a single, cast-lead .44 Magnum round. The face of the bullet was as flat as a hammer, and someone had carved a very deep cross into the lead with a knife. “The worm dead, then you gotta bust up.”
“I like running them over with armored wags,” J.B. stated.
Blacktree slowly nodded. “That’d work, too.”
“What’s with the worms?”
Blacktree rolled his mighty shoulders. “Forget ’em. We left the Bruce. We left them behind.”
Chapter Twelve
Ryan awoke to screams and blasterfire. He rolled out of bed with his SIG-Sauer in one hand and his panga in the other. Krysty sat up. “Lover…what—”
“Gear up.” Ryan heard Krysty’s blaster clear leather. “Stay behind me.” More gunshots and screams rang out below where the convoy, cargo and the majority of the passengers were berthed. Ryan heard a slamming noise in the corridor outside. He swiftly and silently opened the door of their stateroom. The corridor of the passenger suites was dimly lit with smoky, fish-oil lamps. A man was slamming his shoulder into Doc’s stateroom door.
Ryan spoke low. “Hey.”
The man whirled. Ryan recognized him as one of the passengers taking birth to Manitoulin Island. A wordless scream tore from this throat as he charged Ryan. Foam flew from his mouth and his fingers curled into claws. Ryan burned half a mag of hollowpoint rounds into him before the intruder fell twisting to the metal floor, spraying blood at his feet. Krysty leaned out into the corridor with her blaster in both hands, covering her lover’s back. “Ryan…”
“Ship’s under attack.”
Doc stuck his head out of the door, blinking in the lamplight. “Did I hear someone knock?”
Ryan shook his head. “Doc…”
Doc cocked his head. “Is that gunfire and screaming? By my stars and garters I swear most days I wake up to it. One could almost set one’s watch by the…” He trailed off at the look on Ryan’s face and what the man was looking down at. “Oh dear.”
“Fire blast…”
Ryan had put eight rounds into his attacker, all center body mass. The man was getting back up. Worms pushed through his pupils as he got his feet under him. Ryan’s panga flashed. He lopped off the left-reaching arm at the elbow, then sheared off the right at the shoulder. The worm-dead leaned toward Ryan. Its jaw dropped open, and a clutch of worms stretched toward Ryan like a questing hand. His panga hissed through the air.
The passenger’s head came off in a fountain of blood and waving worms.
The dead thing staggered drunkenly as the worms sticking up out of his neck realigned themselves toward a target. Ryan’s panga sliced beneath the passenger’s patella and the former human fell twitching and spilling symbiotes. A foot-long length of filth squirmed across the deck toward Ryan. He crushed it beneath the heel of his boot. “The ship isn’t under attack. It’s infested. Doc, get Krysty to the bridge. It the highest place on the ship and the safest. McKenzie and his officers will gather there and start fighting their way down deck by deck.”
“Of course my friend, but you—”
“Jak is down on the wag deck with Seriah in the LAV. J.B. and Mildred are in the big rig’s cab. I’m going to go get them.”
Below them screams, gunshots and the bloodthirsty roars of the infected melded with the squeals of Fatty’s herd of pigs under attack in a chorus of horror. Toulalan, Six and Seriah came out of their rooms almost simultaneously, blasters in hand.
“Yoann! You, your sister!” Ryan stared at Seriah. “Seriah! Get to the bridge!”
“No!” Toulalan objected. “My people are down below!”
“Fine! You’re with me! Doc, take Krysty, Cyrielle and Seriah! Go now!”
“Yes! Of course!”
Ryan ran down the corridor, Toulalan and Six falling in behind him. Doc bowed to Krysty, Cyrielle and Seriah. “Ladies, if you will kindly—”
“Come on, Doc!” Krysty pushed past him. The Canadians followed her.
“Oh, well, of course, ladies first…” Doc hurried after the women. Krysty ran down the corridor. Shots were echoing in what had once been the cafeteria and gift shop. She threw open the door. Skillet, the Queen’s cook, lay on the floor feebly twitching and mewling as a bare-chested, blood-covered crewman held him down and bit huge bloody chunks out of him. The crewman leaped up and turned on Krysty. The whites of his eyes were solid red and his muscles strained against his bones. His veins stood out in crazy striations of strength. Bloody froth spewed from his lips as he lunged at Krysty. She shot him five times in the chest, and he faltered as her blaster clicked.
Cyrielle shoved Krysty out of the way. “Stand aside!” Her Diefenbunker C-7 made a sound like tearing canvas as she blasted an entire mag into the worm-infected crewman. He jerked and shuddered beneath the bullet storm and fell face-first to the deck. Cyrielle slammed a fresh mag into her blaster. “Merde!”
“No, Cyrielle.” Krysty put a hand on her shoulder. “He isn’t—”
The bullet-riddled crewman lurched to his knees. Worms pushed forth from every bullet hole and orifice in the corpse, straining toward the living bodies in front of them. Seriah raised her blaster.
“Ladies…” Doc stepped forward. “Stand aside.” He cocked and leveled his LeMat revolver. The worm puppet that had once been a man shambled forward. Doc flicked the lever on his hammer for the shotgun barrel and fired.
The 16-gauge roared and its payload hit the thing right above the heart. The crewman’s head, left shoulder and arm blasted away from the body and flopped to the deck in a shower of gore. The remaining arm and torso flailed backward from the shock of the explosion and fell. Doc’s sword flicked out from its sheath. He took a cue from Ryan and slashed his point beneath both kneecaps.