“It isn’t impossible,” Bachman said hesitantly, pulling out his lens and polishing it on a sleeve. “Sure as shit didn’t sound like a drunkard’s boast. And if they knew a way in, by Davey’s bones they might just know the way out.”
“Touch of a knife up their arse will make them talk,” Red Blade said, cracking a toothy grin. “Makes anybody talk.”
“For a while,” the captain agreed, still polishing the clean lens. “And we know where they can be found. Cold must mean Cold Harbor ville.”
“Baron Langford.” The pirate chief scowled hatefully, touching his scar. “His ma gave me this. Be happy to do the son the same. But not gonna use a dull blade and only get half the job done.”
Bachman tucked the lens away. “You’ve been there? How good are their defensives?”
“Too good. Island got cliffs on every side. Only way to reach land is the main harbor. Ville has stone walls and lots of cannon.”
“And their gunners are good shots, so I hear from others who have tried to raid the island,” the captain mused. “Tried and failed.”
“Aye, sir. Must be a dozen ships lying at the bottom of that harbor,” Red Blade agreed. “Almost as many as Maturo Island itself! One of them is me old ship, the Manatee.”
“A good vessel, and a smart captain,” Bachman said, removing his hat and mopping the sweat off his face with the damp handkerchief. It was lace, and he swore he could still smell lilac flowers, a token from the chilled slut who had made a child into a man and taught him the truth of the world. Trust nobody.
His tanned skin brown as dirt, Red Blade stood directly in the streaming sunlight completely unaffected, as if he were carved from cool stone.
“We can’t risk a direct assault,” Bachman said, tucking the cloth up a sleeve, “unless we get another ship to ride in first and draw their fire. Some newbie who doesn’t know any better and only wants to split the booty.”
“Aye.” Red Blade grinned. “The Amsterdam, maybe, or the Cortez.”
“No, not those,” Bachman muttered. “But at least one more ship. Maybe a lot more.”
ONE HUNDRED MILES AWAY, three lifeboats floated along under the blistering sun with oars out of the water, no movement, no sounds. Hungry seagulls circled the drifting boats, watching the motionless human forms lying inside the wooden shells. Nuzzling close to the skiffs, a shark swam alongside, patiently waiting for more food.
Slumped over at the tiller, Doc held the hot wooden handle, a damp handkerchief draped over his head as protection. Scooping his hand into ocean for just a moment, he dribbled some more water on the cloth and waited for his shift to end. The rest of the companions lay on the bottom of the boat sheltered by the shadows of the jackets. The other two lifeboats were pretty much the same, one man at the tiller, while the rest sought shade from the blistering sun. Rowing was done only at night.
Only yesterday, they had all grabbed an oar as the oceanic river carried them directly toward Forbidden Island. They managed to break out of the current just in time, and then Ryan and J.B.’s rad counters loudly indicated why the landmass was considered taboo. Twenty miles away, the Geigers started clicking, and quickly rose to an almost steady burr. Without the advance warning, they would have sailed into a harbor ringed with green glass, the vaporized shadows of battleships cast on the half-melted rock of a tall mountain range. Twin volcanoes towered above everything, wisps of steam rising from the truncated peaks, the southern face lined with the flowing red river of molten lava working its way into the sea. There was a strong stink of sulfur. The chemical was often referred to as brimstone in his time, but apparently now it was called flash.
The ruins of a predark city rose behind the glowing harbor. The wealth of the ancient world was just waiting to be taken, protected by the deadly, invisible field of hard radiation. Figures could be seen moving among the ruins, and he wished the muties well to their cornucopia of technology.