“Give them hell, boys!” he bellowed, raising a clenched fist.
Switches were thrown, nuke batteries sparked brightly and the boat lurched as the wide tube on the left side of the deck threw out a blunt-nosed cylinder, its aft propeller spinning in a blur. The torpedo bit the water and skimmed away, steadily building speed. Then the right torp was launched and the two sped away. Operated by tiny alcohol engines, the predark machines shot through the salty waves moving ever faster until they were literally flying from one wave crest to the next.
Breaking formation, the sailing ships began to move away from one another in an effort to lessen the danger from the incoming torps. Then the surface of the ocean was peppered with cloth bags of shrapnel from the cannons on the foredeck as the pirates tried to stop the incoming weapons.
While the petey crew hastily reloaded both tubes, Mitchum nervously watched the torps head for the enemy vessels. Lacking the guidance systems of the tiny muties inside the weapons, this was purely a matter of aim and timing. Too soon and they would pass harmlessly in front of the shipstoo late and they go behind.
“Ready all!” a sailor called, his hand on the firing lever.
“Wait for it,” Mitchum commanded, grabbing the windshield of the low-slung wheelhouse. The wakes of the torpedoes were lost amid the rough waves, and it was impossible to see exactly where they were located.
Suddenly, the ocean jumped a hundred feet in front of the first pirate vessel, the water rising high in a steamy geyser. The pirates cheered the hit. Then the second windjammer broke apart as a strident fireball formed amidships, timbers flying everywhere as the sea poured in through the gaping hole in the hull. Immediately, the craft began to list and the crew started leaping off the deck, fighting the breakers and the waves in an effort to reach the shore.
Turning away from their sinking sister, the other windjammers brought their main guns to bear on the lone PT boat, firing salvo after salvo. A round shot across the deck, the wind of its passing knocking down sailors. Another clipped the smokestack, the glancing blow leaving a crimping dent and causing the steel flue to ring deafeningly, flakes of paint shaking off the vibrating metal.
“Full stop!” Mitchum shouted, and the anchor was dropped as the aft propellers were disengaged. Then as the boat slowed its progress, the sec chief quickly added, “Release the fish!”
The last two torpedoes were launched, both traveling for the first sailing ship. Both of the vessels opened fire with their cannons to smash the machines, the black smoke of the rapid discharges covering the sea battle like winter fog.
“Now, while they can’t see, launch the Firebirds!” Mitchum commanded.
“How many, Skip?” a sailor asked, lifting a torch of greasy rags and lighting it from an alcohol lantern kept burning for just that purpose.
“All of them!”
Startled, the navvy blinked, then smiled. “Aye, aye, sir!”
Shouting a battle cry, the gun crew rushed to the pod, locked it into position and lit the line of fuses before backing away. Even as an explosion came from the other side of the smoke barrier, the rockets began streaking away to disappear into the gloom.
Surrounded by the acrid cloud, Mitchum could only hear explosions, and the sounds of splintering wood.
Cannons roared almost without stopping, then more explosions. An unnerving silence covered the sea, broken wily by the sound of the waves lapping against the aluminum hull of the modified PT boat.
Mitchum rushed to the stern of the boat, his new blaster in hand and ready. His crew assumed firing positions along the gunwale, a shirtless sailor covered with tattoos manning the .50 cal. The four torpedoes and six Firebirds were all that had been allotted to the lord baron’s gunboat. Instead of saving each weapon for a point-blank chill as he had been told to do, Mitchum instead gambled on a two-step barrage of high explosives. If it worked, the island would be defenseless once the mountain bunkers were taken out, and they could do that with sec men on foot if necessary. Then landing the Hummers with their .30-cal machine guns would be easy. But if even one windjammer sailed through the thinning smoke, the peteys would have only handcannons and longblasters to defend themselves from the thundering black-powder cannons, and that meant retreating to Cascade. Days would be lost rearming the craftsvaluable time the pirates could use amassing ships and digging in for the next attack.