“There she is!” a navvy cried out, as the bow of a windjammer sailed out of the swirling fumes.
Yet even as they started shooting, the rest of the vessel came quietly into view. The hull was on fire, the mast gone, the deadly cannons tumbling from the broken hull to splash into the water. There was no sign of the second sailing ship.
“She’s dead!” the bosun cried, firing a burst from the fifty in celebration.
“Belay that mutie shit!” Mitchum ordered, holstering his piece. “Pilot, get us some distance before her magazine of powder blows!”
“Aye, sir!” the man answered and shouted directions down the speaking tube.
The steam whistle keened once to balance the boiler pressure as the petey swung about and headed back to the others.
Returning to the landing area, Mitchum grunted in approval as his pilot expertly eased PT 94 alongside Glassman’s boat. Most of the Firebirds were gone, and the windshield of the vessel was missing, the deck littered with glittering shards, but it seemed otherwise intact
“Well?” the captain demanded, glancing up from a conversation with the pilot.
“Aced the lot of them,” Mitchum gloated, then jerked his chin at the distant mountains. “What about the bunkers?”
“Nothing from them since our last flight,” Glassman said, rubbing his arm. A piece of glass from the smashed windshield had gone through his upper arm. The wound was minor, but hurt like a son of a bitch every time he moved. Easing his hand into a pocket, he forced the arm to relax and the pain diminished. We’re out of slaves,” Mitchum said with meaning.
Releasing his arm, Glassman glared hatefully at the shore and its invisible barrier.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “I know.”
Legs splayed to stay properly balanced on the gently pitching deck, Mitchum crossed his arms and studied the rocky beach. Blue crabs covered the corpses sprawled on the sand, sharp pincers ripping the flesh from their bones. There was a glowing rad crater to the left of the shallow river, the body of the chilled girl about a hundred feet to the right of the waterway. If there was a safe trail into the valley, he would guess it’d be just to the right of the river.
“Only one way to find out,” Mitchum said aloud. He was so close to Ryan, there was no way he’d stop now. Not even to save his own life. “Pilot, head for shore and drop me off.”
“Sir?” the pilot gasped, releasing the till. “You can’t do that. You’re the captain! Send a mate, or the barrel girl we got in the bilge.”
Damn, he’d forgotten all about her. “Get the slut,” Mitchum commanded.
In short order, the woman was dragged to the deck and the colonel explained the situation. She was to swim to the shore at just that spot, or they’d bloody her up and drag her alive behind the petey until sharks arrivedthen they would cut her loose.
Nodding dumbly, the bruised woman jumped into the water and swam to the shore. Rising from the gentle waves, she slowly walked along the right bank of the shallow river with her wet rags billowing in the wind. Twice she stumbled, the sharp coral in the sand cutting her feet. Each instance, she dared to glance backward and saw the longblasters tracking her every move. With little choice in the matter, she continued onward until reaching the bushes. She had done it! Walked past the beach! Then she darted into the greenery just as a flintlock spoke. The miniball ripped away a handful of green leaves, but she was already gone.
“She made it!” a navvy cried, and more took up the cheer.
“All boats, land the Hummers!” Glassman shouted, sliding a longblaster over a shoulder and taking the binocs.
“Pilot, the boat is yours until I return. Stay a hundred feet offshore, and if any pirate ships arrive, you haul ass and come back at moonrise. We’ll swim out to meet you. Got that?”
“Aye, Skipper,” the man said, then trying to curry favor added, “Wish I was going with you!”
Strapping an extra ammo belt around his waist, Glassman glanced at the navvy. “Then you’re an idiot,” the captain said simply, and walked to the aft of the boat straightening his weapons.