Chapter Sixteen
Out beyond the breakers, the PT boats came steadily around the sandy point and toward the island harbor, thick smoke pouring from their aft funnels, forming a black cloud that lay over the ocean like a death shroud.
“Nine…ten,” Dean counted grimly, forcing himself to sit upright. “Hot pipe, that’s a lot.”
“Too many,” Ryan agreed, paddling fast. Out in the open, they were easy pickings. They had to reach shore, or they didn’t have a chance. Looking straight ahead at the fishing trawler, Ryan saw Krysty and the others standing still, watching and waiting. There was nothing else they could do for the moment. Then the alarm gong from the ville abruptly stopped, and he realized it was so the incoming boats wouldn’t hear. Glancing over a shoulder, Ryan saw the Peteys spreading out from a tight formation, some slowing, others heading for the pass in the breakers, the water churning behind them from the spinning props. Damn things might be steam-powered, but they had real speed and were armed to the teeth. He had seen PT boats many times before, mostly just wrecks on the garage level of waterfront redoubts, but these were in fighting trim. The hulls were shiny with paint, the windshield sparkling clean.
Plus, a low wall of sandbags ringed the top deck, offering protection from snipers and shrapnel. They had to weigh a lot, but the additional tonnage didn’t seem to affect the speed of the gunboats. Fat black tubes for predark torpedoes rested on either side of the stubby killers, the usual quad-.50-caliber assembly removed for a single .50-caliber machine gun. The depth charge racks were gone, replaced with small black-powder cannons, and in the middle of the ship was a honeycomb arrangement of short pipes stuffed full of sleek rockets.
“Those must be the Firebirds Jones mentioned,” Dean grunted, pulling on his clothes. His skin was raw on the right side of his chest, the rest of his body greasy, and the cloth kept sticking in place and had to be pulled loose again and again. Hopefully at the next redoubt, there would be a working shower.
“If those were LAW rockets,” his father said, never slowing in his work, “one ship would have enough to level the whole ville.”
“Look homemade,” the boy said, buttoning his shirt closed.
“Doesn’t mean they aren’t as deadly as a shitter full of muties,” Ryan added grimly. Five of the boats were staying outside the breakers, while the rest steamed into the harbor. Point advance guard and cover guard. These sailors weren’t fools.
“Want me to help row?” the boy asked.
“Hell, no. Toss a line over the side,” Ryan growled, his hand slipping off the oar from the slippery blood. “Make it look like we’re fishing, not trying to get away.”
“Yes, sir,” Dean said, and fumbled with some twine, tossing a loose strand over the side and gazing expectantly into the calm water.
Not far away, the chilled shark floated belly up, schools of tiny fish and the big eel taking bites from the fresh carcass.
THREE OF THE Peteys cut their motors in the middle of the harbor, as PT 264 and its escort went straight for the dock.
The wind ruffling his hair, Lieutenant Brandon stood in the wheelhouse of PT 264 and studied the harbor. Everything looked peaceful enough, father and son fishing to the right, couple of windjammer trawlers at the dock, maybe a dozen canoes on the shore. There were a lot of sec men on the brick wall of the ville, but nobody was waving, and the gate was closed. At least the alarm gong wasn’t sounding, so there couldn’t be anything really wrong.
“Look there, sir,” Sergeant Thor said, pointing. “At the end of the dock.”
Brandon did, and frowned. As always, a couple of lanterns were hung at the end of the pier, to light the arrival of ships and give them sufficient warning not to crash into the dock. But one was draped with kelp. At night the light would be a bright green, visible for miles.
“Another bastard traitor,” Brandon muttered, clenching a fist. “Kinnison only wanted the flash, nothing more.”
“And now, sir?” the sergeant asked, trying not to move his face too much. On the long trip here, he had received his tattoo of rank, and the hundreds of needle stabs across his features still hurt, throbbing painfully through the night. Only the nimble tongue and young flesh of the silent slave helped him get to sleep at night. Brandon had already agreed to sell her to him. The price was high, ten blasters, but well worth it. She was the hottest slut he had ever had. Just amazing.