by G M Eppers
“Pirates rarely pillage in their own backyard.” He wasn’t looking at me as he spoke. He was watching the various groups of recruits to make sure they were getting directed off the deck. “Now get below, I said!”
I put the binoculars up to my eyes again to look at the oncoming deck boat. It was still several hundred yards aft, but the binoculars gave me a good view. There were four people on board, three men, all heavily bearded, and one voluptuous blond woman with thick, massive waves of hair flying behind her. One man was at the helm, secure behind the large windshield, the other three were smiling and congratulating each other on the open part of the deck, but there wasn’t a lot of room. It was cramped quarters for the four of them, all wrapped into a small seating area by a thick gunwale. The two other men took turns grabbing the woman by the waist and planting kisses on her lips, not carrying if her hair got in the way. As I watched, one of the men opened a storage box on the deck and pulled out hats. One for each of them. He handed one to the woman and one to the other man, then plunked one on his own head, handing a fourth hat to the woman to put on the pilot. The woman also kissed the pilot on the cheek as she pushed the hat firmly onto his head. The driver’s gaze was focused ahead at the horizon, but he yelled something at her. All the hats were cups of dull, gray metal, with an elongated piece that covered the nose. There was another round of high fives and kisses and soundless cheers that were carried away by the wind.
“Montana, get below or I’ll have you dragged to the brig.”
I wasn’t afraid of his idle threats. “You can’t. And I’m not just any civilian. I have three years of field experience. I feel like I could be useful. I know how to fight a radical group.” Around us, the majority of inexperienced cadets were being herded below deck, leaving only a handful of officers. As the crowd thinned, I searched for Evan, Rachel, and Marge, but didn’t see them. They must have retreated as well.
He and I both knew there was no time for an argument. “I’ll tell you something Captain Dergunderhoeven told me. Every group is radical,” Bobby said.
“How so?”
“We call them radical. They call us radical. It all evens out in the wash. Every group is radical. It’s a meaningless distinction. Ever fought pirates?”
“No,” I had to admit. The closest I got was Sylvia back before she got her artificial eye and was wearing an eye patch all the time, but I didn’t have to fight her. Fortunately. I’ve seen her fight and I was always glad she was on our side.
Bobby ignored me and swung his binoculars around to watch the deck boat. “Dang, it’s getting crowded around here,” he said. He wasn’t talking about the deck of the Ike. He meant the open ocean.
I put my binoculars back up to my eyes and looked, too. Coming up behind the deck boat was another speedboat, a bowrider, loaded with people.
A man wearing a green cravat around his neck sat behind the wheel. He leaned forward as if that would make the boat go faster. Next to him was a redhead in a cornflower blue evening gown. Behind them, on an L-shaped seating area was a woman in black with short black hair and eyes green enough to be seen even at this distance, a small-framed man with a leather case strapped across his chest, and a slightly huskier man clearly holding a cell phone in one hand. In the rear-facing seat were identical twins sitting very close together, holding onto the edges on each side of their wide seat as the aft area dipped into the splash zone repeatedly. All of these people had black vests over their clothing with white lettering on the backs. When the woman in the evening gown leaned forward to urge the boat on, I saw a poofy bow peek out at the small of her back, squished between the bottom edge of the black vest and the rim of a loaded utility belt. Ahead of the steering wheel was more seating, but the man there wasn’t using it. He was standing facing forward, with one foot up on the seat like George Washington crossing the Delaware. He wore an Army General uniform with no black vest, holding his billed cap on his head with one hand, easily riding the bow as it bobbed up and down on the waves of the deck boat’s wake.
There was no way I was going to go below now. My heart began to race as I realized the deck boat’s occupants had to be the smugglers Team A had been chasing for weeks. They were heading directly for the Norwegian ship at top speed. I noticed a few other things, like the deck boat was riding low for a boat holding only four people, and making unusually large waves as it jumped swell after swell. They had probably come in smuggling something from that ship. Could it be they were also smuggling something back?
I also realized that the bowrider, built for speed, was gaining on them. And I knew those black CURDS vests were not flotation devices.
Chapter Four
The bowrider was gaining steadily. On the deck boat, the party was winding down as they saw their pursuers getting closer. Its inboard motor completely hidden under the aft deck, it spewed out white foam like a can of bathroom cleanser. One of the men leaned forward to speak to the pilot, who took the time to glance backward briefly. His mouth, below the nosepiece on his helmet, smiled. Quite suddenly, he changed course and began an erratic path through the water, occasionally even circling back, his hands forcefully spinning the wheel clockwise and back again. The crew didn’t seem concerned by the United States Aircraft Carrier right next to them. Its decommissioned status must have been well-known. We weren’t even fast enough to ram them.
The curvy path the deck boat took churned up the water into large whitecaps that crashed into each other, creating dangerous rough water for the bowrider. Sir Haughty aimed the boat through the middle of the waves, trying to keep the shortest path to his target, but he wasn’t on land. He was on water. “No, no, no,” I shouted, knowing he couldn’t hear me. “Angle it! Angle it!” Whitecaps like that could easily flip the bowrider bow over aft and toss all of them into the ocean. The bowrider hit a crescendo of whitewater head on, sending the boat almost straight up before it came crashing down, partially filling the boat with water, and landing Major McGrone on his butt in the seat well. He gripped the polyester upholstery with both hands and I was surprised his hat stayed on his head. At the back of the boat, the twins clambered over the seat and stuffed themselves into the rear seating area just before the boat tipped upward. They crouched in the well, leaning against the back of the seat they had just abandoned. Behind Sir Haughty, Badger pointed to his phone and shouted something. Sir Haughty took one hand off the wheel long enough to give him a thumbs up, then slammed the helm hard to starboard. Major McGrone gripped the seat, adjusted his hat, and stayed down. Not wanting to lose too much ground, Sir Haughty came about right away and steered to port for the next big wave.
There was water splashing around inside the boat, but it wasn’t really accumulating. Seems it wasn’t more than the cockpit drain could handle, but I hoped it wouldn’t flood the engine. The two boats continued this water ballet for a while, the deck boat losing progress on its way to the Norwegian ship, which started, slowly, to come in closer.
One of the men on the deck boat reached into the storage box again and brought out something that he handed to the other man. The second man slung what appeared to be a quiver of arrows over his shoulder, and then reached for the bow he was being given. I lowered my binoculars and stared at Bobby. “Bow and arrows?”
Bobby alternated between his own eyes and his binoculars. “Viking wannabes. They didn’t have guns.”
“And the helmets? What about the horns?” None of their helmets had the set of horns like in any Viking story I’d seen.
“Historically accurate. Ever heard of an opera called The Ring? It’s by Wagner.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of it. Ride of the Valkyries, and all that.”
“That’s the one.” He raised his binoculars again as he spoke, watching the deck boat make a wide circle around the bowrider to make it slow down, or perhaps stop, as the archer waited for the best opportunity. “The costumer created horned helmets because he was German. The story involved Norse mythology and people started connecting the two. But V
AVAVA do their homework. No horns on any helmets found on Viking ships.” He paused. Sir Haughty was trying not to slow down, trying to plow through the rough water and keep moving, but it took all his focus. Roxy kept yelling directions or advice as her head swiveled to take it all in. Sylvia, sitting behind Roxy, would lean forward, tap Roxy on the shoulder, and point out something Roxy hadn’t seen. Nitro gripped his field kit tightly. It held valuable equipment as well as first aid supplies, which he might need quickly if any of those arrows found their mark. “No guns on the Ike,” said Bobby. “We always scared them off before with a few shots across the bow of the mothership, but since we were decommissioned they’ve been getting bolder. They like spears, too, but those would be too unwieldy on a deck boat.”
Arrows. Spears. “Anything else? What about close combat?”
“Axes.”
Okay. Avoid close combat, I thought.
Sir Haughty was giving them a good run, refusing to stop the bowrider. With a limited number of arrows and the water rough and unpredictable, the odds were in their favor if the guy tried to take a shot.
Taking a deep, calming breath, I raised my binoculars again. Roxy leaned over to Sir Haughty to say something. He nodded, but he was unsure what to do. If he slowed down enough to get out of arrow range it would be a retreat, and they would lose their quarry. If he sped up to close the gap, well, arrows work at close range, too. At the bow of the bowrider, Major McGrone stood up, crossed his right arm across his body and drew his pistol from the holster on his left hip. He said one word over his shoulder. I’m pretty sure it was, “Steady!”
An arrow sliced through the air and missed his gun hand by inches, sliding almost silently into the water. Was the order meant for Sir Haughty or was McGrone trying to steady his own nerves? McGrone’s gun arm was straight out, held steady by his left hand at the elbow.
On the deck boat, the archer nocked another arrow into the bow, following the bowrider with the tip while he waited patiently for a comfortable shot. The boats were still darting back and forth. The ocean around them looked like a maelstrom. Water dripped from the pirates’ beards, and from the brim of McGrone’s cap. The blonde had her face right up next to the pilot’s as she, like Roxy on the bowrider, provided navigational information.
My heart was pounding as I stood on the deck of the Ike, unable to help, unable to even yell encouragement. The receding waves from the wakes plopped against the hull of the aircraft carrier sixty feet below me.
The archer let loose, but a swell caught him unawares and the arrow went wild, flying well over the bowrider and dropping into the ocean a dozen yards behind it. I couldn’t tell how many arrows were in the quiver, and I didn’t have any idea of the average capacity. Somewhere between one and five hundred, I thought.
I saw Bobby’s eyes move up to check out the progress of the larger ship. “Hope this gets settled before Daddy gets here. They are going to have spears and a much steadier ride.”
“We have to do something!”
“We can’t help them,” he said sadly. “Until it’s over. I’m sure Captain Dergunderhoeven radioed for armed help, but it’s going to take time for them to get here.”
Arrow number three was nocked and ready. McGrone still hadn’t fired a shot. He raised his arm a little higher and leaned his head in to sight the pistol better. He fired.
On the deck boat, the helmet on the man without the arrows was suddenly askew. His hand flew up to the side of his head, feeling the new dent in the metal. His buddy tapped him on the shoulder questioningly, and he gave him a nod. With a casual air that made it seem like an afterthought, arrow number three flew, and came to a quivering landing in the gunwale just to the left of Badger. He slipped down off the seat and into the well, pulling out his own Glock 33. He turned back, ready to aim at the deck boat from behind the seat back as the bowrider twisted and turned in the water.
Roxy and Sylvia armed themselves, poised next to each other to guard the other side of the bowrider. They fired off a couple of shots, but I couldn’t tell where they went. The water was so turbulent there was no way to detect the tiny splash of a bullet hitting the ocean, and there was no indication of another successful hit on the deck boat.
I zoomed in on the archer, who was loading his bow with arrow number four. As the deck boat turned I got a glimpse of the quiver and it looked like there were two or three more arrows. They probably had hundreds on the mothership and wouldn’t worry about losing a few into the ocean. A bullet hit the edge of the deck right in front of him, sending up a plume of smoke and fiberglass debris, causing him to stumble backwards. He tripped over the woman and the arrow flew almost straight up. They all watched it, ready to duck out of the way, but it shifted a little and hit the water about a foot to port. The second man motioned for the first to give him the bow, taking an arrow from the quiver at the same time. With a scowl, the first man surrendered the bow. The second man took a knee, nocked the arrow, and sighted his shot, clearly aiming for McGrone, who kept his pistol arm locked, tracing the up and down motion of the deck boat with the barrel of the gun.
Take cover, you idiot, I thought at him. He should be crouching down in the well, not standing up. A shot rang out, sounding like a pop gun through the noise of the surf, but I couldn’t tell if McGrone fired it or one of the others. On the deck boat, the windshield to the left of the helmsman shattered. Glass sprayed over the people in front of it, who ducked and covered their heads with their arms. In retaliation, the archer loosed his arrow. He seemed to have much more confidence when firing in revenge rather than simply targeting on the offense. McGrone ducked or it would have hit him in the throat. As it was, it skewered his Captain’s hat and carried it away. McGrone reached for his hat, but found only empty air. The hat and arrow landed in the water and sank from view. He seemed to have learned something, however, for McGrone now went to his belly, awkwardly leaning against the seating, only his head peeking above the gunwale. He put his elbow on the seat and tried to aim his gun again, now having to adjust for an upward angle.
Bobby tapped my arm, and I turned toward him. While all this was going on, the Norwegian ship had come in even further and was less than two hundred yards away. It angled, showing a broadside to the fighting boats. I guessed that they were coming in to collect their smugglers.
I was wrong.
A line of Norwegians, in helmets similar to those worn by the people on the deck boat, stood along the deck. Most had full beards, but there were some women among them as well. Each one had a bow in one hand, for now held at their sides. They wore black, long-sleeved shirts and thin, decorative, fur scarves. On their hands, they wore thick gauntlets. As one, they reached over their own shoulders and took arrows and nocked them. On the aft end stood another man holding a flaming torch. In practiced fashion, the man with the torch set fire to the first arrow. That archer swung around and lit the next man’s arrow, then swiftly swung back to center and loosed. Each archer did the same like they were in an old Buzby Berkeley musical. (When I was a kid I stayed with my grandmother from time to time and she exposed me to some very unusual video entertainment, like the Vincent Price The Fly and 42nd Street.)
“Christ!” I yelled. “You’ve got to be kidding! Flaming arrows?” My heart skipped a beat as I watched one after another of the flaming arrows fly through the air, over the deck boat, toward the bowrider. The first volley all landed in the water, sending up jets of steam as each arrow plunged into the ocean all around the bowrider.
Everyone in the bowrider now had their pistols out and took aim. With several targets available, they shot almost indiscriminately. I saw Nitro and Sylvia stop to reload. Two of the archers fell back. I couldn’t tell if they’d been hit or were just ducking, but they didn’t come back.
The row of archers nocked new arrows.
Sir Haughty, at the helm, increased his speed and continued piloting the boat erratically, a strategy that was working both for and against them. The pirates were having a hard time hittin
g the moving target, but it was equally difficult to hit them while the bowrider was weaving in and out through whitecaps. The deck boat, meanwhile, abdicating their offensive position to their mothership, slowed and stopped at a position under the archers’ trajectories, sitting smugly as they watched the bowrider dodge flaming death.
“Bobby, we have to do something!” I hated just standing here watching.
“There’s nothing we can do,” he shouted back at me. “It’s going to take an hour or more for an armed vessel to get here.” He aimed his binoculars at the pirate ship. “They’re lighting up again.”
Another volley scattered and hissed into the water. In addition to the moving target, the archers didn’t have proper time to aim. Once the arrows were lit, they had to shoot them or risk getting burned themselves. Not even the heavy gauntlets would protect them for long and the more of the arrow that burned the less likely it was to reach its destination. There were still two gaps where the archers had fallen back. As they loaded up another round of arrows, the gaps filled up. Whether the original archers had recovered or these were new I wasn’t sure.
Then the worst possible thing happened. There was a puff of smoke on the bowrider and it came to a halt, bobbing in the roiled surf. Evidently, the boat had taken on too much water and the motor had shorted out. Sir Haughty scrambled to restart the engine, but had no luck. The team didn’t hesitate. With their new stability, they aimed their pistols and fired at the line of archers as they began to trade flame along the line.
At the same time, the archers at the aft end shot their arrows at the stalled boat, one after the other. Sir Haughty shouted something and they all jumped overboard a second before two of the arrows landed in the boat. One of the arrows landed in the seat cushion where McGrone had been sitting a moment before, setting it on fire, and the other punctured the deck in front of the windshield, where the fuel tank was located. There was a massive explosion sending a fireball hundreds of feet into the air, and pieces of boat began raining down.
