The tip of the SIG-Sauer blaster leading the way, Ryan proceeded up the stairs until reaching the top deck. Standing behind the wheel was a big man, bleeding profusely from the cheek, his jawline stitched with tiny splinters. He was dressed in rolltop boots marred by fire, torn pants and a gore-stained shirt. An empty bandolier was draped across his chest, a MAC-10 machine pistol hanging over a shoulder. One hairy-knuckled hand was lashed to the tiller, the other held a sputtering torch held above an open barrel full of dark grainy material.
“This is black powder,” he said. “Got a fuse in its belly leading down to the powder room. One touch of this torch, and the ocean gets a new hole in it. Follow?”
“Understood,” Ryan said, lowering his blaster, but not holstering the piece. “You got a name?”
“Baron Tucholka. You?”
“Ryan. Looks like we got a standoff here. You don’t want us to leave, and we can’t let you stay.”
“Fuck that,” the baron snarled, as a wave broke over the bow of the ship. “Get off my ship!”
“No,” Ryan said, and swung the SIG-Sauer toward the man.
Another wave hit the ship as Tucholka lowered the torch toward the open keg. “I’ll give ya to three to drop the blaster,” the baron snarled. “Then I’ll—”
Ryan fired before the man could finish the threat. The pitch torch flew from his grip and hit the gunwale, going over the side. But some of the burning resin had been knocked loose by the impact of the bullet, and glowing sparks floated toward the black powder. Backing away in terror, Tucholka fought to free his bound hand, and Ryan could only stare as the burning pitch fell through the air, tumbling and turning.
Chapter Six
The first glowing droplet of pitch winked out before landing in the explosives, but the second hit the edge of the keg and teetered. Ryan fired, and blew away a fist-sized chunk of the keg, which skittered across the deck for yards.
Ryan felt his muscles relax as the danger passed. If that had gone inside, there wouldn’t have been enough remaining of the whole ship to stuff into a spent brass casing.
Bound to the wheel, Tucholka was still tearing at the rope around his wrist. Ryan stood and leveled the pistol at the fat man.
“No, wait!” he cried. “I know something important about this boat!”
“Ship,” Ryan corrected, and fired again.
The body slumped over the wheel, the weight dragging the spoked rim clockwise. Obediently the Constellation started heading to the right, straight for the breakers.
“Fireblast!” he cursed, and grabbed the huge mechanism with both hands, fighting to correct their course backward. The ship didn’t respond, and they continued straight on for the deadly pink coral. The irregular surface glistened in the salty spray like a wall of daggers.
Suddenly Jak was alongside Ryan and slashed with a knife. The dead baron slipped from the cut ropes and rolled over the side, splashing into the briny deep.
“Take the left side,” Ryan grunted, and the two men struggled to try to regain control of the mammoth runaway. The wheel moved as if the baron were still attached; every direction they pushed in, pushed right back.
“We’re fighting the sails!” Ryan cursed, his boots slipping on the blood. “Not going to make it!”
“Idea!” Jak growled. Reaching out with a leg, he hooked the top of the black-powder barrel and dragged it close. Shoving it under the grips, the wooden handhold jammed tight on the weakened wood, and the teenager let go his grip.
“Get the others,” he panted, and jumped down the companionway, landing heavily on the deck below.
“Hey,” Krysty hailed from a hatchway in the damaged deck. “Nobody else on board. She’s all clear.”
“Gonna crash,” Jak barked. “Help Ryan at wheel!”
The redhead glanced at Ryan holding on to the giant wheel, and hurried forward without saying a word.
“What can we do?” J.B. asked, tucking his glasses into a pocket for safekeeping.
“Dunno,” Jak said, his hands clenching and unclenching helplessly at his sides. “Only room for two at wheel.”
Above them was a labyrinthine maze of ropes and pulleys going in every possible direction.