“That’ll put fear into their bones!” Glassman sneered in triumph. “Ready another Bird!”
“Aye, sir!”
“Incoming, nine o’clock!” a sailor shouted, pointing to their left.
Jerking his head about, Campbell growled in anger and raced to operate the big .50 cal as three tall pirate ships crested into view from around the quay of the islands, a row of smoke rings appearing along their sides as the pirates cut loose a fall broadside of their heavy ship cannons. The lead hit everywhere around the boats, but did no damage, the range simply too great for an accurate strike.
But the sergeant knew that had been no warning shot. The pirates had tried for a fast ace and failed, that was all. Now the sailing ships raised every yard of canvas available to their masts and started charging forward at their best speed. Closing in for the chill. The windjammers were huge, more than ten times the size of the PT boats, and even at three to four, the odds were heavily in their favor.
“Orders, sir?” Campbell asked, turning to his captain.
“Prepare more Birds, fast,” Glassman snapped, then drew his blaster and started firing.
Campbell spun about to see a slave going overboard and another dashing forward to grab the .50 cal, swinging it across the deck. The crew dived for cover, but nothing happened as the slave wildly yanked on levers and pulled the trigger out of sequence.
Moving from behind the smokestack, a navvy rushed forward and slashed out with a machete, the blade cleaving the slave from shoulder to waist. Ropy guts slithered onto the deck as the dying man tried ineffectively one last time to operate the big fifty, but the complex double safety was just beyond his comprehension.
The navvy pushed the corpse over the side and corrected the settings on the .50 cal, firing a short burst at the sky to make sure. Then he swung the massive weapon to cover the rest of the slaves and they cowered in fear.
“Clear the deck!” Glassman ordered, rising from behind his chair. “Ace the lot of them!”
Screaming, the slaves begged to stay on the boat. But the fifty cut loose, the heavy slugs slamming their tattered bodies past the gunwale and over the side. The slaughter was done in less than a minute, but the rebellion had bought the pirates precious time, and now cannonballs were hitting the ocean around the peteys from two directions.
“Ahoy, the 94!” Glassman shouted, then cupped hands to his mouth, as the spray of a near miss rained down on his craft. “We’ll handle the mountains! You hit those fucking jammers, and send them to Davey!”
But the guard boat was already in motion, the hull of PT 94 shuddering as the gears of their trannies were thrown into reverse. The steam engine bucked in response as the propellers abruptly changed rotation, and forced the craft to awkwardly turn until the bow was pointing straight at the approaching windjammers.
“Full speed ahead!” Mitchum cried, a rope lashed to the captain’s chair, held tight in his hand.
The pilot relayed the order via the speaking tube to the engine room belowdecks. In a gush of smoke, the steam engine surged with power. The petey rapidly accelerated to attack speed, the water foaming white as the bow of the nimble craft sliced across the rough water.
“Ready all tubes!” Mitchum shouted, the wind blowing against him so hard he was forced to sit in the captain’s chair to keep from falling over. This was his first taste of a sea battle, and an almost sexual thrill was coursing through the sec man.
Behind them, the other three peteys were sending off salvos of Firebirds at the mountain bunkers, but not one rocket was aimed at the pirate windjammers. They were Mitchum’s concern, do or die. Good, that was the way he liked it, to be his own master, answering to none.
“Ready all!” a navvy replied, scampering along the slick deck as if the vehicle were standing still.
“Give us the word, Skip!” another shouted.
Skip, eh? So he had finally been accepted by the sailors. For some reason that pleased him greatly.