Generation Z (Book 6): The Queen Unchained

by Meredith, Peter

  They wound their way to the roof of the prison, where they were blinded by sunlight. Mike went to the telescope and studied the Corsairs. Men were swarming all over the ships. Many were being repaired, while some were being loaded with torpedoes and smoke drums. Seeing them made Mike’s stomach ache. They weren’t cowed or scared. They weren’t on the verge of a mutiny. If anything, they looked angry. They looked like they wanted revenge.

  “What do you see?” Jenn asked. “What will they do?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know, I’m not a Corsair. You should be asking Deaf Mick.”

  Jenn’s face froze. “We can’t. Last night when you came back everyone was so focused on you that no one saw him take one of the boats.”

  Anger flared hot in Mike for a second, and then died away to nothing. “Then they know how weak we really are.” He hung his head. “They know about my traps. Jeeze! What a waste of time.” He had spent the last week shifting buoys to mask shoals, setting up underwater obstacles that could gut a boat in seconds, and preparing tripwire bombs across the southern approaches to Treasure Island. “All for nothing.”

  He wandered away from the telescope and saw that the crowd from Jenn’s office had followed them to the roof.

  “You want to know what they’re going to do?” he growled. “They’re going to keep coming at us, on and on. They’re going to draw the noose around us. They’ll put men in Oakland and along the remains of the Bay Bridge. They’ll have men in San Francisco and along the middle harbor. And they’ll take their time because they can afford to wait. They can strike Treasure Island anytime they want. Or not. They could starve us out now if they wanted. And God help us when the rest of their fleet arrives.”

  “And our plan to counter this?” Bishop Wojdan asked.

  Mike scoffed, “What plan? Deaf Mick killed our last chance. No ‘plan’ will fix this.”

  “Hmm,” Wojdan hummed. “Maybe we have the wrong leader after all.” He nodded at Commander Edgerton, who nodded back, gravely. She was as tall as Mike and in her uniform and with her shining spear, she looked the part of a leader. All except for her eyes.

  In them Jenn saw the slightest bit of doubt. With Mike, it was the opposite. He was almost completely filled with doubt, and yet the part that wasn’t, was hard and extremely capable. It was unbending. That part of him refused to lose.

  “No, it’ll be Mike,” she said. “And he’s right. No plan or gimmick will fix this. The war will be won or lost on the bay, and the only way to win it will be to fight man to man and ship to ship.”

  Mike gaped at her wondering if she understood the carnage and the death she was ordering. Then a thought hit him: Had she seen a sign? If so, she wouldn’t be deterred. She would insist that some flower meant he would be victorious, and there was a time he would have believed it wholeheartedly. Now, he knew he would be part of just another bloodbath.

  But would it be as leader or as follower? He glanced over at Edgerton. Her lips were a tight line and her body was tense beneath her armor. Mike could tell she knew about ships—all Guardians knew at least the basics of sailing—but he didn’t think she knew enough to command a fleet during battle.

  Do I know that much? he wondered. That was the question, and he didn’t know the answer. The one thing he did know was that other than Troy Holt, the Guardians were merely “good” sailors. None stood out. None seemed more at home on the water than on land. The Corsairs, despite their intense laziness and sloppy techniques, at least loved their ships with a passion. And they would fight them with equal passion.

  “I’ll do it,” he said, speaking in a whisper without looking up. “I really don’t want to, but I will. And what’s more, I make no promises at all. When we leave, I don’t know if anyone’s coming back.”

  Chapter 35

  San Francisco Bay

  The Guardians were all for launching the ships right away. They prided themselves on always being both physically and mentally prepared for battle, and each felt that the sooner they got to the fighting the better it would go for them.

  Mike was of another mind altogether. He gave a series of orders before going to Jenn’s telescope and studying his opponents. They were loading men onto their ships, which meant they were going to attack somewhere. The fact that they were only loading ten per boat suggested they were going to land men along the Oakland waterfront. Ten per boat was too few a number to attack either Treasure Island or Alcatraz.

  He called the captains and first mates of each boat up to the roof of the prison for a briefing. They discussed the various sound, light and flag signals they would use. They talked tactics to reduce casualties, and strategies to bring more of the Queen’s ships against a fewer number of the Corsairs. Mike then pointed out the features of the bay.

  He told them where the currents ran fast, where the air would suddenly die, and where the tides were like magnets that could suck a boat onto the rocks.

  When the briefing was over, he still withheld the order to launch. Only when the Corsairs slipped their moorings did he give the okay. As the Guardian captains ran down to the docks, Mike went to Jenn and pulled her aside. He wanted to kiss her goodbye without the Bishop looming over them.

  Her lips were cold and the kiss was mechanical. She was afraid for him and couldn’t hide it. “Come back to me,” she pleaded, her fingers gripping the heavy parka he wore.

  “I’ll try. I-I don’t want to die.” It was an odd thing to say and it left them standing in an uneasy silence. Below them chains began to rattle as the curtains of torpedo netting were pulled back from the dock. It was Mike’s cue to leave. “I love you, my Queen.”

  There were tears in her eyes now and her cheeks were bright with cold and sadness. She seemed on the verge of asking him to stay. Instead she took a deep breath, forced a smile through her misery and said, “My Captain.”

  Mike feared that if he stayed a second longer he might not be able to leave her side. He kissed her hand fiercely and then jogged away, down through the prison and out to the dock where the Queen’s Revenge awaited him. Her magnificent, snowy sails billowed out the moment he stepped foot on her deck.

  She was the fastest ship on the bay, and in half a minute she was in front of the twenty-nine ship fleet and tacking north to cut off the Corsairs. The sight of the fleet threw the Corsairs into confusion. Some ships charged forward thinking now was the time for payback, while others turned back, not wanting to fight with their holds crammed with soldiers. At least a third of them milled around a single large catamaran, which began running flags up and down its backstay just as fast as it could.

  There were a few minutes when Mike could have turned northeast and gone toe-to-toe with the first group. They had the numbers but not the weather gauge. The other Corsair ships could have been on them in minutes, and any advantage in ships sunk would have been flipped as soon Mike ordered a retreat.

  The chance passed and the Corsairs regrouped as Mike continued angling northward against a breeze that ran south-southeast. He went north along the east side of Angel Island, while his opponent went to the northwest where half his fleet landed on the island and the other half across the straight in the once swanky neighborhood of Belvedere, California. Mike watched with satisfaction as the ships disgorged their soldiers. At the very least, Mike had spoiled the Corsair commander’s plans for those men.

  On the prison rooftop, Bishop Wojdan watched with far less satisfaction. “Why didn’t he attack when he had the advantage?” Jenn could only shrug. “And look. Their fleet is splitting up; half to the north and half to the south. And Mike just sits there.”

  Mike saw the trap with perfect clarity. Both forces were keeping too close to the island to be attacked. At the same time, if he just sat there, he would be attacked from two sides at once.

  “I’m sure he has a plan,” Jenn said, even as Mike went north of the island, in essence, cutting himself off from his base on Alcatraz.

  Whatever his plan was, the Corsairs weren’t falling
for it. To the north was San Pablo Bay, a huge area that was perfect for maneuvering. Mike tried to entice them into the bay, but the Corsair commander wanted no part of a campaign based on skill. He was satisfied with his advantages and would not be drawn north no matter what Mike tried.

  The cat and mouse game continued throughout the day with pretty much everyone in a ten-mile radius irritated with Mike’s delaying tactics. His fleet race tracked around and around, sometimes clockwise, and sometimes he’d suddenly reverse order and go counterclockwise to keep his men on their toes. Sometimes he would send his fleet speeding downwind towards the Corsairs and there would be a flurry of excitement, but he would always turn away and go back to his endless circles.

  As the day wore on, people grew bored and drifted from the rooftop of the prison and away from the docks. Bishop Wojdan called for a chair and a blanket. Then he asked for sandwiches and wine. “He did hear you about fighting ship to ship, didn’t he?” the Bishop wondered aloud. He said this sort of thing often.

  Jenn always answered: “I’m sure he has a plan.”

  Whatever the plan was, she hoped to God that it did not include Angel Island. Through the lens of her telescope she could see men lined up along the shore behind makeshift barriers. They were hoping Mike would stray too close so they could shred his ships to pieces. The Corsairs even tried to bait Mike in that direction by leaving only seven ships near the island.

  It was practically an invitation to attack, one that Mike ignored.

  Jenn began pacing. She felt useless, but couldn’t think of anything she should be doing. After every turn, she came back to the telescope and rechecked the position of the fleets and she rechecked Mike, himself, looking for any sign that he actually did have a plan as she kept insisting. She saw none.

  Mike paced as well, back and forth along the length of the Queen’s Revenge. Jenn had never known him to have this much patience. Ever. It was as if he had ceased being a boy during the raging fight the night before and was now a man. Standing on the deck, with his blonde hair thrown back and the stubble flashing gold on the hard planes of his cheeks, he looked like a man.

  This realization made her nervous. Real men had a bad habit of dying around her. Stu Currans had become a man in front of her and had been gunned down by the Black Captain. One Shot had been murdered. Commander Walker was resting in a watery grave. Even her own father had been killed demonstrating the finest qualities of being a man.

  “And so many others.”

  “Other whats?” Shaina asked. She had been following Jenn back and forth all afternoon.

  “Men. So many real men die.”

  Shaina considered this. “Bad men?”

  Jenn was about to agree when her dark auburn hair swirled suddenly in front of her face. The sun was finally dropping on the long day and the wind had changed. It was now coming out of the north. “Yes. Bad men die, too.”

  “Smoke!” The high piercing cry of Lindy Smith made Jenn jump. The seven-year-old had been playing hopscotch perilously close to the edge of the building and now she was pointing north. Mike had set off a score of smokers which were generating a growing black cloud. It blew down on the Corsairs, covering them.

  Soon nothing could be seen of both fleets except the tip of the Revenge’s mast. It took on a blood-red glow from the setting sun as it circled in the smoke.

  “He’s still not going to come out and fight?” Bishop Wojdan asked. “I really don’t like this, or understand it for that matter. I think I relied on Commander Walker too much and now that he’s gone, all this military stuff seems wrong somehow.” The front he’d been keeping up all day suddenly fell away and he looked grey and old. Most of all, he looked lost.

  Jenn thought he was going to cry and didn’t know how to handle it. “Commander Walker was a great man and he died doing his duty and protecting others. He should be properly mourned, and he will be as soon as we win.” If we win. She kept that to herself. She too felt a little lost.

  If Mike had a plan, it wasn’t obvious. The smoke was fine, but also useless since no special scope was needed to keep track of the Revenge as it went round and round. Halfway through his third circle, Jenn went back to pacing. Smoke or no smoke, there was nothing to see—or so everyone thought.

  Mike knew his mast was a beacon and he knew people thought it represented his fleet. The entire fleet had gone around on their wide racetrack twice, but on the third, as the Queen’s Revenge sailed on, they broke out of formation and charged down on the seven ships barring their path to the west.

  Because of the smoke, the guns from Angel Island were useless and the first indication that Mike had changed tactics was the rattle of automatic weapons fire. Caught by four to one odds, the seven ships were ridden down and destroyed in minutes.

  The moment he heard the gunfire, Mike swung the Queen’s Revenge south into the smoke and into the battle under full sail.

  Across the bay, the gunfire was a soft patter that gave no hint of the real earsplitting noise that assaulted the sailors. The guns thundered and the torpedoes were maddeningly loud. When they went off, there was a flash of orange and black light and even those not close to the explosion were hit by walls of blistering hot air.

  The sea turned angry and the boats heaved up and down violently. To Mike it was like every other battle he had been in: a confusion of smoke and fire; ships and men and bullets going in every direction. In only one way was it different: Mike wasn’t scared at all. He wasn’t even a tiny bit nervous. He was too busy to be afraid.

  His mind was spinning in a blur as he tried to process the data coming at him. Where was his ship in relation to the coast, to the rest of his fleet and to the Corsairs? How were his sailors reacting to the stress of battle? Were they calm? Were they hiding down in the hold? And how was the wind? Heavy? Shifting? Steady? How much longer until the tide changed? When would they hit the cross-channel current? And how were the Corsairs reacting? Were they fleeing? Attacking? Holding station?

  All of this kept him far too occupied to leave room for fear.

  The Queen’s Revenge was the last ship to enter the battle. She was the biggest boat and the biggest target on the bay, and even with the smoke she could be seen as a ghostly, somewhat alien form, gliding through the water. Two of her masts were bare, while the middle one strained under the weight of overlapping double sails. Already they were riddled with holes, something that couldn’t have pleased Mike more.

  Sails could be repaired and replaced compared to a shredded hull. And the sailors on board could never be replaced. Twenty men and women had volunteered for the Revenge, though currently only two could be seen with any distinction. Most of the others were down in the galley where they were below the waterline and somewhat protected.

  The rest were lying flat on the deck—against their will. They were proud knights who feared appearing weak more than they feared death. They were envious of Mike, who stood tall by the stern mast.

  “Torpedo off the port beam!” a burly Knights Sergeant called out. He was squinting into the clouds of smoke that parted periodically to show a burning ship or a scattering of bodies. “I’d put it at fifty yards, Captain.”

  Mike leapt across to the port side and saw the buzzing contraption through the smoke. It was not particularly impressive; two foam boat fenders supported a scuba tank that was fizzing compressed air from a hose. At the back of the tank was a remote controlled truck with fins glued to its wheels to guide the torpedo, while sitting on top was the thirty-pound warhead. Unimpressive or not, Mike knew that it was deadly.

  “Helm hard over to starboard,” he ordered without raising his voice. “Call for two gunners on deck.”

  The boat swung to the right as two soldiers rushed up from below. One was immediately hit in the neck by rifle fire. He lurched to the rail, blood pouring from beneath his hand. Two others rushed to take his place, while others dragged him below.

  Mike’s eyes were drawn to the smeared trail of blood, even as one of the gunn
ers cried, “I don’t see it! Where’s the torpedo?”

  A hand grabbed Mike, jerking him back. It was Ren Finnemore. As he was the fleet commander, she was technically the captain of the Revenge. “Mike! The torpedo! Where is it?”

  “It’ll be at our seven o’clock. We may need nets as well.”

  All eyes were fixed backward, searching the smoke for the coming torpedo. Too many eyes in fact. When the crash came, it came from an unexpected direction: in front. Everyone jumped as the Queen’s Revenge sheared through the burning remains of a Corsair ship.

  “Focus, damn it!” Mike roared as wood scraped over wood, making a terrible screech. “Everyone to their stations.”

  Not a minute later, one of the gunners said, “There it is. Right on our seven.” The torpedo was struggling through the choppy waters, but was still gaining on the ship. Four guns went off and rounds were off target, some by as much as fifteen feet. With the smoke and the waves lifting and dropping both the ship and the torpedo, it was not an easy target.

  Twenty more bullets were wasted before Mike called for a net. The net was a more certain method of stopping a torpedo. It only had to be thrown into the weapon’s path to work. The extra weight slowed the torpedo and when it got caught in one of the fins, the torpedo slewed off to the left. Seconds later, it exploded like a depth charge, sending up a fountain of white water.

  The men let out a roaring cheer, which died quickly as two more torpedoes were spotted through the smoke heading in at them.

  More bullets were fired and with a greater urgency. One scored, hitting the front of the scuba tank square on. Instead of exploding as everyone expected, the tank leapt up into the air as if it were alive. It spun in a blur and then shot down into the water, where it writhed and leapt about before exploding in a fireball thirty feet from the ship. A dozen hunks of metal embedded themselves in the hull of the ship and the double sail was beginning to tear.