“Speed is our best chance,” Ryan said, removing the clear plastic mag from the Steyr. Just one round remained inside. Grimly he pocketed the partial and slid in the last full mag. “Got to lighten the boat. Jak, Doc, dump those side cannons. We don’t have ammo for them anyway.”
The men rushed to the weapons and used their belt knives to start hacking them loose from the deck.
“Mildred, stand guard,” he directed, lifting a five-pound lead ball and casting it overboard. “Krysty, leave the fifty and dump the sandbags.”
“Those are the only defense we got,” she said, hoisting one in each hand. “You sure?”
“Too damn risky,” he said, a second cannonball following the first into the drink. “Everything goes. Strip the ship!”
“I’d suggest we use that coal oil,” J.B. grunted, sweat dripping off the man from his endless fight to keep the rudder straight. The cramps in his arms and shoulder were getting worse, but he stubbornly kept control of the yoke.
“It’ll kill the engine in a few hours,” he added. “But we’re only a few hours away from Spider Island.”
“You sure?” Jak asked, looking up from the destruction of the deck.
“Hell, no,” J.B. replied honestly. “But I think so.”
“Okay, go for it,” Ryan said, brushing back his soaked hair. “We gotta reach land before those sec men find us again.”
“Mayhap with reinforcements,” Doc added, tumbling the small cannon off the craft. “Most undesirable.”
J.B. relayed the order down to Dean, and soon the black smoke from the twin funnels shifted to a grayish color, then went almost white as the thumping of the pistons took on a more powerful sound and the PT boat lurched forward. The brine misted over the bow as the battered vessel knifed through the tropical waters.
NIGHT RULED the world, as the three Petey boats chugged softly toward the burning wreck of PT 53. A full moon was rising into the starry sky, the black horizon dotted with silhouettes of a few small islands and several sandy atolls.
Longblaster at the ready, Brandon surveyed the crippled vessel while trying not to scratch at the dozens of badly healing cuts on his face. The itching was driving him insane, and the salt spray wasn’t helping any.
Behind the officer stood the launching pod completely restocked with Firebirds from his escort vessels; two spare torpedoes were primed and ready on either side of the gunboat. Even the smashed windshield had been replaced with the one from PT 77. The crew of the three vessels had been spread around so that all were short-handed, but none was too poorly manned to operate properly in a fight.
Lolling in the water, the hull of PT 53 was almost gutted to the keel, the boiler only scraps of twisted metal rising from the charred deck. The sandbags were missing, but that was something Brandon would have done himself to increase speed. However, the .50-caliber was still in place, and who would leave a blaster like that behind?
Carrying an alcohol lantern, a figure rose from the remains of the smashed wheelhouse and walked to the edge of the derelict vessel.
“They’re not on board, sir,” the bosun reported loudly. “Looks like the boiler blew.”
“Could be the sarge hit it before getting aced,” the pilot suggested, a rag wrapped around his head to hide the gaping socket of his missing eye. “Just took it a while to finally let go.”
“Sometimes that happens,” a sec man said, rocking to the motion of the waves. “Ya gets hit here, but blow miles away.”
“Makes sense,” Brandon agreed hesitantly, tightening his grip on the longblaster in an effort to not touch his face. Scratching would only make the scars worse.
“Then again,” he muttered, “I wonder if these tricky bastards are trying to fool us again.”
HACKING THEIR WAY through the thick bushes and vines, the companions reached the predark paved road on the hillside overlooking the fishing ville.
“Any sign of pursuit?” Ryan asked, squinting into the darkness.
J.B. already had the telescope out and was scanning the ocean back and forth. “I see some lights far to sea,” he reported. “North by northeast. But nothing coming this way.”