by Chuck Dixon
The larger man yanked the crewman away from the radio and forced him down on the deck. The African moved up behind the second, who was standing rigid, awaiting orders at the levers, a rictus grimace on his face.
“Anyone speak English here?” the mad redhead said.
“We all do,” the skipper said.
“Great. You just keep doing what you were doing, cap’n. But anyone goes near that radio or hits a claxon, and I’ll have to do things neither of us will like.”
“I understand,” the skipper said.
“That’s all I need to know. Proceed.” The redhead dropped into the captain’s chair, his weapon across his lap. He pulled a radio in a plastic sheath from a pouch on his belt.
“The tug is ours.” Boats’ voice over the radio.
“We have not secured the platform,” Shan replied.
“Put the Coors on ice. We’re coming in anyway. Boats out.” The radio went dead.
Shan knelt on the deck by a toolshed in which he’d locked the two crewmen they’d found and one other man he’d met on the way aft. That and the man back in the comm shed accounted for all the crew. Looking aft through the railings, he watched the tug closing in through the glare of the powerful lamps mounted high on the superstructure. In the brilliant light, the waves looked like drifts of white snow heaving up and down. The drops of rain were black in the glare. Lights atop the swaying yards of the tug added to the noontime brilliance.
The free-floating platform tilted suddenly, making Shan brace himself to keep from sliding. The rear dropped into a deep trough, a chasm of water opening up behind it with dizzying speed. The tug rose higher and higher on a massive crest before pointing its prow down the green wall of water to line up for its approach. For a few seconds, it looked as though both vessels would meet in a catastrophic collision at the floor of the trench. Then the deck of the platform leveled as the tug vanished behind the artificial horizon of the building swell. The bow lights appeared over the rolling foam again like twin suns. The Xia Gang Tuo rose into view behind an exploding prow wave.
Shan decided to join the hunt for the rest of Harnesh’s guards. The SEAL could bring the vessels in line without help from him. He made his way along the deck toward Lee’s last position, blinking through the rain over his sights.
The worst combat conditions Lee Hammond had ever experienced. Worse than Helmand in a sandstorm. Worse than Fallujah during Ramadan.
Visibility shit. Noise of the storm covering every sound.
Deck under his feet, moving like a theme park ride.
All he could do was move and shoot, shoot and move. He dropped a guy standing twenty feet from him when a lightning flash lit the interior of the boathouse like a sound stage. That was two down with the guy in the crew shack. Maybe three if he’d clipped the guy who’d fired down on them from the catwalk earlier.
Lee moved low and slow along the catwalk away from the lights at the stern. Before him, rain lashed the sea in front of the open end of the huge cyclopean box. Rollers lapped the walls in gouts of spray as they roared into the channel between the high walls. The noise rose to deafening levels with the wind shear and surge effect. If it was shit conditions for him, then it was shit conditions for them. But then, they could just hole up and make him come for them. One of those assholes left to roam could fuck up the whole op, ruin everybody’s day. He swung his sights to the right and down to cover the walk on the opposite wall and broader deck below. He leaned out, hand gripping a curved ladder rail, to train the rifle down at a pile of containers that had spilled over in turbulence. A few containers floated in the open water below, banging against the edge of the dock and one another in the swirling current. They made a discordant drumbeat as they slammed into the cowling. A fucked up soundtrack for a fucked up situation.
A shift in the shadows. A change in the play of light somewhere off in the corner of his vision. He turned, dropping into a crouch, to bring his weapon around. A shape was moving from the dark between two upright supports. He’d missed the fucker, walked right past him. The guy was raising a pistol toward him, face ghostly white in a sudden shimmer of sheet lightning.
A series of flashes threw the gunman into silhouette. The guy crashed to the deck, handgun bouncing over the plating. From the dark behind him, Shan advanced, rifle up and trailing smoke.
“Are you all right?” Shan shouted. He’d reached the fallen man, aiming a kick, two kicks at the ribs.
Lee stepped closer and fired two rounds into the back of the fallen man’s head.
“I am now,” he said, leaning close for Shan to hear.
They stood back-to-back, weapons traversing the dark.
“How many left now?” Shan said.
“Two at the most. Maybe only one. Hear from Boats?”
“He’s bringing the tug in now.”
“Well, that’s his end covered anyway,” Lee said.
Together, they continued down the catwalk, the barrels of their rifles arcing back and forth to cover the night.
41
Song for the Slain
The Mughal fortress had fallen silent under a pall of black smoke that spilled over its walls to cover the water in swirling fog. There were fires within the fort. The sharp tang of wood smoke could be smelled miles away. The waters under the walls turned gray with ash.
Sailing into the smoke, Njarl’s ship came as close to the fortress as the depth of the waters would allow. The big man-of-war turned its port side toward the walls and let loose a series of rolling fusillades that punched craters in the face of the stronghold.
Only desultory fire from jezails and rockets answered from the besieged fortress. Missiles fizzed out of the haze to land in the water far beyond the ship’s position. Musket balls fired blind, peppered the sail canvas. The ship replied with twenty-pound balls, hammering away until the return fire died away to random potshots.
Njarl roared commands, and the oars were drawn in and boats were lowered to the water. Nets were dropped for men to clamber down for the direct assault on the Mughal redoubt. From the top spars, sharpshooters kept up a withering suppression fire on defenders at the top of the fortress walls. A wind off the water stirred the barrier of smoke, clearing it enough to make visible a tower collapsed into the water, leaving a broad gap in the defenses.
Dwayne trained a scope on the gap and could see men working to pile baskets filled with earth and rubble across the break. Dark men. Some naked but for loincloths. Many of them fell to rifle fire and charges of grapeshot from the ship’s top and gun decks, causing the rest to retreat. But the dark men were soon back to work, pulling and straining to build a makeshift defense. More of them dropped to the punishing fire, but others stepped in to take their places. Dwayne suspected there were unseen men with whips urging the slaves on; safely out of the line of fire, of course.
Musketoons, large bore mini-cannons, were brought to the port face and fixed in place along the gunwales. Men loaded them with canister shot under the barks of a bald man, his blond beard and face black with powder. The fire from these guns was trained on the work party piling gabions before the break in the wall. The slaves vanished in a red mist as the golf ball-sized shot shredded flesh and bone as well as collapsing a long section of baskets.
The Ranger took his eyes from the lens when he felt a presence come close by him at the rail.
“We are in the next wave,” Samuel said.
“Lucky us,” Dwayne said.
They watched Njarl climb down into a waiting boat. The silver bosses on his leather chest armor flashed in the light of the guns going off above. His mouth was open in a continuous stream of profanity or orders or encouragement. Dwayne had no idea which, as the big man could not be heard over the constant exchange of fire between the ship and fort. Njarl dropped down into the boat and waved them toward the surf. The boat was pushed from the hull, packed to capacity with armed men all joining their chief in a chant or song or prayer. Longboats skimmed past fore and aft of the ship on their
way shoreward where they drove up on the sandy beach in the shadow of the walls. Men vaulted the gunwales, calling oaths or shrieking wordless cries of berserker rage from the throats of Viking and Allemani troops. Heard among these calls were the keening whoops of Mayan and Xi-uian mercenaries, near naked, bodies painted and carrying long spears and quivers loaded with barbed arrows.
The narrow beach before the walls was quickly crowded with groups of men milling over the sand. Explosions erupted at the foot of the walls. Bombs of some kind dropped from above. Stones rained down as well.
The chaos ashore began to take on some order as men moved toward the slope of rubble that led to the wall of gabions that blocked the break in a forlorn attempt to keep the Northmen out. Dwayne watched the boats returning to the ship to take more men to battle. He and Samuel would soon be in the midst of the hell on land, and the slaughter that would happen within the walls. He’d been here before, witnessed a scene much like this when he’d joined an Imperial Chinese army as they invested a stronghold of the Tai Peng rebels. This was warfare at its worst; men unleashed upon each other without mercy. Two enemies that hated one another. One was on its knees but fought on. The other was gaining the upper hand and would make the defenders pay, and the price would be torture, death, and for the fortunate survivors, a lifetime of slavery.
“What’s our mission goal here, Sammy?” Dwayne said.
“Stay alive,” he answered.
“That means we fight.”
“I see no other way.”
A hoarse cry from above turned their eyes to where a rifleman sat athwart a spar with a long-barreled gun across his knees. He was calling out and pointing off the starboard side toward the open gulf.
Lateen rigged sails showed on the horizon. They were on course for the remainder of the Northman fleet waiting at anchor to join the assault. The men-of-war sat alone without a screen of gunboats; the shallow draft skirmishing craft had all joined the amphibious assault.
The triangular sails loomed closer and grew in number as they closed on the fleet. Towers of white water rose in the sea between as the two fleets came within range of each other. For now, the shots fell short. Soon they’d be in killing distance, and the Viking fleet would be outnumbered.
A man named Ivar, Njarl’s second-in-command, shouted orders to a man stationed at the tiller. The man put his lips to a long oxen horn mounted there and blew three long calls. Even over the din of the battle ashore a series of replies reached them. Horns bleated in answer through the haze of smoke. Njarl now alerted, a series of pennant flags were run up a line where they flapped high against the topsails.
Ivar leaned on the quarter-deck rail; an ear cocked landward. A series of horn blasts caused him to pound a fist on the rail post. He took in a lungful of air with a hiss and bellowed orders that had the crew racing to their posts. Oars were run out. Within seconds, the blades of the sweeps were churning the water in answer to the beat of drums. The big ship turned about, its prow aimed for a return to the threatened fleet and enough seaway to bring its guns to bear.
“They’re leaving their chief behind?” Dwayne said.
“No choice. If the fleet is sunk or taken, they’re all trapped anyway,” Samuel said.
All around them, men were in movement, independent but unified. Men raced belowdecks to their guns. The remaining assault troops were handed repelling weapons, long pikes, hooks, halberds, and axes. The musketoons were unshipped and carried forward where they were mounted to the rails along the bow. Fighting nets were strung over the main deck to catch debris—the tackle, spars, and, bodies—that would fall from above in the coming duel of cannons.
A growling man in a bristling white beard shoved a thick barreled musket into Dwayne’s hands. It weighed a good thirty pounds. The barrel ended in a curved ax head on one side and a spade-shaped dagger on the other. White Beard snapped and spat, and the words needed no translation. “Get your ass into the fight!” The guy would have been right at home bawling out wannabes at Ranger school. Dwayne once had a jump instructor who laughed like a mental patient as he shoved mewling greenies out of the hatch at ten thousand feet. That guy and White Beard could have partied.
Bow down; the big ship hove for the open sea with spritsails spread and angled to catch the easterly wind. The deck was tilted forward. A loose cannon ball tumbled along the deck in front of Dwayne and Samuel as they joined the men at the prow.
Two or so miles before them, the fighting between the two fleets was joining. Strikes were landing closer and amid the Norse fleet raising tall gouts of water that sprayed the decks. In return, balls landed in the collection of Mughal ships that were approaching in a loose arrow formation for the heart of the enemy. There were no tactics on display here as far as Dwayne could see. This was blunt force fueled by centuries-old rage. These armadas would join at ramming speed, the crews of each anxious to get at the throats of the other.
The Mughal vessels looked like theme park attractions more than warships. A forest of angled sails rose above the decks; all painted in garish Hindi symbols against stripes and madras prints that had to be silk. A hundred oars cut the water from two rowing decks staggered atop one another. The hulls were high, and the decks broad. They looked clumsy and unwieldy, much broader across the beam than the sleeker Norse boats. And the tall sides were painted in bright colors of yellow and red and trimmed in what looked like real gold plate. Every surface that wasn’t festooned with the mouths of brass cannons was carved in figures from the Hindu pantheon. The lead ship’s prow featured a preposterously detailed and painted sculpture of Kali, the hands at the end of the many arms holding daggers, a goblet, a scroll, an arrow, and the severed head of what was unmistakably a Norseman dangling from a topknot of blond hair.
Close behind Kali was a second, larger ship with the bow fashioned in the visage of Ganesh, the elephant god, dressed in crimson robes trimmed in gold. Like the rest of the ships that Dwayne could see, the Mughal craft were loaded with guns rising from the waterline in four rows of ports. He counted fifty or more guns down one side of the Kali. Near twice that on the Ganesh. And, high up on the masts, were fighting platforms packed with figures already firing muskets though hopelessly out of range. They left contrails of smoke behind them as the ships glided closer.
From both vessels came the steady pulse of drums carried across the water by the wind. Atop that rhythm came the joined voices of men calling out in time.
“They are preparing for what comes ahead. Swearing loyalty to their chosen god. Promising vengeance for the khans in this life or the next,” Samuel said.
In contrast to the chorus raised from the advancing armada, the usually raucous Northmen were muttering to themselves. Rather than prayers or oaths or curses, each man sounded as if he were reciting a list. Samuel caught Dwayne’s curious gaze.
“They are saying the names of those who have passed before, telling the dead to ready their place in Valhalla.”
42
Targeted
The monster tug was rising and falling, first, bow down then stern. It bucked wildly, buffeted to starboard then to port in the crossfire currents. The bow lumbered thirty degrees in either direction with each new assault.
Boats took the rudder and throttle levers while Geteye held his rifle on the skipper and his two crewmen. The SEAL cursed through clenched teeth as he fought to keep the bow true, in line with the heaving docking bay barely visible through the blinding spray. Getting the big boat into the padded “V” of the push bay was going to be like threading a needle blind. Or near blind.
As the tug hove closer, it came under the shelter of the looming edifice of the floating dock. That cut down on the wind shear. The torrential downpour died away a bit. The SEAL leaned the tug hard to the right. The bow dipped to bury its nose deep in a green wall that rose and broke over the front deck and crested against the bridge with a booming crash. The angle was steep enough to raise the tug’s screws up out of the water long enough for Boats to lose thrust.
They settled down hard into the water once again, sending charts, coffee mugs, pens, and a laptop sliding to the deck. Boats gunned the engine and swung to port, aiming for one of the long, padded arms hung with water-filled nacelles that would serve as buffers. He throttled back to dead slow, ratcheting the wheel hard to starboard. The port bow struck the arm on that side with enough impact to collapse three of the nacelles. They burst like two-hundred-gallon water balloons. The skipper winced at the high squealing sound of metal on metal as his boat slid in along the steel arm. He made an involuntary move to help. Geteye made a gesture with his rifle barrel. The skipper stepped back, returning to join his two mates.
Boats drove the wheel half a turn to port and let out a long whistle as the tug slowed, slowed and came to a halt with a shuddering thump against the reinforced crotch of the “V.” The two craft were joined now and rose and fell in unison atop the rolling seas.
“And that’s how you park a car, ladies.” Boats turned to the others with a grin.
“What do we do now, skipper?” Geteye said.
“You need to lash on, or the current will drag us apart again,” the captain said.
“Order your men to do that. Remind them that we’ll kill their captain at the first whiff of bullshit,” Boats said.
“Do you understand?” the captain said to his two crewmen. Both nodded in unison.
His second posed a question in Cantonese.
“English only, assholes!” Boats said.
“He asks if we will live through this night.”