Savage Armada

by James Axler

  Ryan wasn't sure what that last phrase meant, had to be something local, but the tone carried the ring of truth.

  "Deal," Ryan said, and he held out his hand. However, Captain Jones raised a hand to stop him. "Not so fast," he said quickly. "There's something I need from you folks in return. Gimme an oath you'll fight alongside us in case of trouble. These villagers caught us asleep. But there's pirate ships out there that raid these islands. Sleek windjammers armed with our own cannons. We're big, but they're fast. Those fancy rapidfires might make them think twice, mebbe go try some other ship." The new captain spit in his own palm, then held it out. "That's the deal. Shine and two trips, for your blasters at our backs, both ways and in port. Deal?"

  "Fair Steven," Ryan said, repeating the earlier phrase, and saw the reactions in their faces. The trade was sealed.

  Just then, a lone seagull flew by cawing for its mate. The companions flinched at the sight of the bird, reaching for their blasters, and Jones surreptitiously noted the fact. Obviously they had tangled with the condors of Spider Island. That had to be where their ship was moored. How interesting.

  "What should we do first, sir?" a sailor asked, holding a dirty rag to his shoulder. "Check the hull for leaks? She hit that sandbar awful hard."

  "I can do that. It's you sons of bitches I'm worried about," Jones stated, looking over the crew. "Where's Danvers?"

  "The healer tried to run," a big man said. When speaking, he displayed a lot of missing teeth. "The locals gut shot him."

  "Blasted coward," Jones growled. "Served him right. Okay, O'Malley, you're the new healer."

  "Me?" the sailor asked, startled.

  "You. Get busy binding wounds."

  "Aye, aye, skipper," O'Malley said hesitantly.

  "I'm a healer," Mildred said, patting her med kit. "Best you'll ever find."

  Jones scowled at the stocky outlander with her bizarre hairdo. "Then get to work, woman! My crew is bleeding while we jaw."

  "I'll need a private room to sterilize," Mildred said. "Some of those wounds are deep and will need stitches, maybe even minor surgery. I want the captain's cabin as sick bay."

  Jones glanced at the quarterdeck and noted the stairs were gone. It had to have been a hell of a fight, he realized. These outlanders were good.

  "Do whatever you want, take whatever you need," he said wearily.

  "Mildred, I'll start boiling water and ripping any clean cloth I can find," Krysty offered, starting to reach for her backpack. Gaia, those were in the bushes behind the ville. "Where's the galley?"

  "Boiling water?" a sailor grunted, a knife jutting from his thigh. "We're not making soup."

  "Shut up! Don't walk or touch the knife. You two, carry that man," Mildred ordered, starting off across the long deck and around the huge mound of the downed mainsail. She had no intention of trying to explain the existence of germs to these sailors. They never would believe her. Few did these days. "The rest of you, follow me."

  Grumbling among themselves, the survivors did as they were ordered and limped along behind, leaving a crimson trail of footsteps in their wake.

  "Meet you in ten," Krysty said, going for the open hatch that led belowdecks.

  "Hurry," Mildred shouted over a shoulder, already rummaging through her meager supplies. No sulfur, no alcohol, no ether—it was going to be bare-handed surgery once more. May God help the men, but she would save as many as possible.

  Knowing he would never see some of those men alive again, Captain Jones watched the wounded men hobble off, then turned and addressed the rest of the crew. "Okay, the rest of you swabs get back to work! Bust open the ship's stores, and take all the lead and powder ya want. Reload those blasters, boys. We'll never get caught unarmed again, by God!"

  "After that, I want Curtis in the nest and keep a sharp eye for incoming ships," Jones directed, his fists placed on his hips. Short on stature, the runt was still every inch a captain.

  "Yes, sir!"

  "Daniels, man the wheel. Baltier, take one of the outlanders and search the lower decks for any stowaways. Don't want any surprises once we're at sea."

  "Ya wanna talk to anybody we find, skipper?" the tattooed man asked, testing the edge of a long curved knife on a callused thumb.

  The captain scowled. "Feed them to the fish."

  "We already checked below," Ryan said, scratching at his bloody ear. Then he forced himself to stop before the scab came off and it started to bleed again. "Ship is clear."

  "Did ya? Good," Jones grunted. "Then check the mainsail, Baltier. We're not going anywhere without that."

  "Aye, sir," the man said, and began to examine the chest-high folds of canvas.

  "I'll help," Dean offered, and rushed to assist.

  "Good lad!" Jones shouted, then added softly. "Blind Christ, I'm reduced to using brats. Hope that healer is good, Ryan, 'cause we're powerfully short on crew and will need every man alive to get off this stinking rock."

  "Pray tell, sir, what about the girls?" Doc asked, glancing at shore. The women were moving among the dead, using knives on the dead men to settle accounts. The ragged bits of flesh they hacked off were tossed into the crackling fire and raised a wretched cloud of dank smoke.

  "Eh?" Jones frowned, confused for a moment by the change of topics. "They were to be a gift to the baron. He's looking for a new wife. Ain't no good now. Kinnison likes them young and fresh. But you want one, go ahead, she's yours."

  "Indeed I do not!" Doc rumbled, offended. He angrily thumped his stick on the deck. "Do I seem a pedophile? You misconstrued my meaning entirely!"

  "Did I now," Jones said, unsure if he was being insulted or not.

  "Make crew," Jak explained, tucking thumbs into his belt.

  The captain stared at the teenager and the old man. "Women?"

  "You need hands," J.B. stated, pointing a finger at the man, then jerking a thumb at the ville. "They each have two."

  "Aye, and a lot more," Jones said, scratching at the throbbing scar on his shoulder. The numbness of the branding was wearing off, and it was starting to itch bad. "Hey silverhair, Doc is it? You were the one that stayed on shore. Go take the outrigger and offer them the deal. Any women who signs the ship articles will be crew, and treated as such. My word."

  "Done, sir," Doc stated, and headed for the breach in the gunwale where the canoe was moored.

  "Good news, skipper! The main looks fine," Baltier reported, while hoisting a stiff layer. "Nothing much wrong here, just some bullet holes and… Shit-fire!"

  In a soft rumble, the canvas slipped from his grip and slid into the gaping hole in the deck, the ropes trailing behind lashing about madly. It piled in the hold, almost reaching the deck.

  "Rad me, that's thirty feet wide!" Jones erupted, walking around the yawning pit, his stubby legs moving briskly. "Thirty! What the hell did you bastards fire on my darling ship, a nuke?"

  "Close enough," J.B. said, tilting back his fedora. "But it chilled most of the slavers."

  "I'll say. Gren?"

  "Plas."

  "Know anything about cannons?"

  "Some," the Armorer admitted hesitantly. "Want me to help work with the blaster crew?"

  "You are the blaster crew," Jones said gruffly. "The rest got aced."

  "All of them?"

  "Every man."

  "Fireblast! This is why you wanted us on board so much," Ryan growled, advancing on the smaller man. "You've got no trained gunners. This ship would have been defenseless at sea!"

  The captain shrugged. "Said I wanted those rapidfire blasters on my side, and that was no lie. Besides, I knew you only needed to cut a deal 'cause none of you could sail a ship."

  "That obvious, eh?" J.B. asked, clearly annoyed.

  "Shit, yes." Jones stabbed a finger at Ryan. "So remember that without us you're marooned."

  "And you'd be chilled," Ryan reminded bluntly.

  "Mebbe," Captain Jones grunted at the veiled threat. "But I want to ride the ass of the evening tide out of here,
so ya better get busy at your work. There's lot to do and little time." Then, turning his back on the armed companions, he walked away shouting orders to the sailors.

  Chapter Seven

  Skipping over the ocean waves, the PT boat angled around the conning tower of a sunken aircraft carrier and headed for the narrow passage into the calm bay.

  The water was choppy around the island, the natural banks of the landmass reaching out to sea and almost completing a circle. The entry into the harbor was tight, barely twenty feet across, and made even smaller by the piles of concrete and brick from pre-dark ruins, along with the occasional smashed wreck of a submerged vessel. Some were rotting wood, others rusting hulks of exploded metal, and a small handful were space-age polymers, still as clean and bright as the day they had come from the injection molding.

  Stout bunkers stood on either side of the harbor's passage, their sloping concrete walls proof to primitive cannonballs and musket rounds. Grim sec men stood guard within, oily M-16 rifles slung over then-shoulders. A rectangular metal box rose in their midst, its honeycombed interior jammed with sleek fat tubes, their pointed tips barely protruding into view.

  As the PT boat slowed to enter the pass, a lieutenant walked into view and raised a closed fist. Standing on the bridge of the fighting ship, a tall man with black hair copied the motion, then snapped the fist to his chest, then slashed an open palm down to his side.

  "Let them pass!" the lieutenant shouted to the men inside the bunker, then faced the other structure and tapped the stock of his longblaster with two fingers spread wide. The sec men across the water nodded in understanding, and went back inside their bunker and out of the ocean spray.

  The predark military craft slid through the passageway, its aft funnels blowing black smoke into the air, the heavy beat of its engines audible over the crashing of the waves. The tall officer on the deck glanced at the guards in passing, then turned his back to them as the boat reached open water again, and increased its speed.

  "Think he found them?" a sec man asked around the dangling cig in his mouth. The smoke was greenish, like the tobacco, but he drew in the pungent fumes with obvious pleasure.

  The lieutenant took the kelp cig and pulled a deep drag himself before giving it back.

  "Don't really care," the officer muttered, buttoning his heavy coat a little tighter. "I was hoping the shitter would die this time."

  The deck throbbing beneath his polished boots as the PT boat moved easily into the vast calm harbor, Lieutenant Craig Brandon closely studied the defensive bunkers hidden along the curving shore, and noted the bolstered blasters of the muscular fisherman working the nets of a small trawler. A stone castle stood on a distant mountaintop, its imposing array of Firebird rockets undetectable in the manicured gardens, the beachfront dock busy with ships and men. Everything seemed in order, which slightly displeased the officer. As the sec chief for Baron Kinnison, it was his job to always make sure no pirate fleet or attacking armada could break through and reach the baron. Perfection bothered the man, and he made a mental note to offer some of the slaves a full pardon from the saltpeter mines if they would attack the island ville. He'd take them out to sea, give the fools some blasters and knives, and watch how his sec men handled the assault. It would be interesting. And if the slaves decided to try to run, well, that would be a good test of the weapons and crew on board FT 264. For every slave who escaped alive, the whole crew would receive ten lashes. For every slave aced, and their blaster recovered, an hour in the gaudy house. Private level.

  "Fuel," Brandon said to the man at the wheel.

  Both hands on the till, the sec man checked a gauge set amid the predark control panel. Most of the gauges and dials didn't work, but the important ones did: engine temperature, engine pressure, speed and compass. What else did a sailor need?

  "Ain't touched a drop, sir," the pilot reported crisply. "Only used wood the whole trip."

  Already knowing the answer, Brandon grunted in acknowledgment. He just liked to keep the men alert. Coal oil gave the boilers twice the heat of wood, which translated as twice the pressure and speed. However, wood was cheap and squeezing shale for the few precious drops of oil was a long and slow process. He was determined to never waste a single ounce.

  Ahead of PT 264, several large sailing ships floated a hundred yards from the docks, prizes won in battle with the renegades to the south. Now the booty served both as items to be sold to villes that needed to increase their fleets, and as physical protection for the vulnerable dockyards.

  Maneuvering through the picket line of vessels, the wooden giants became lost in the billowing exhaust plumes of the squat PT boat. Now the vast green expanse of Maturo Island filled his view, and Brandon reached over to tug on a thick rope, giving two short blasts on the shrill steam whistle to inform the shoreline Firebird batteries they were approaching. Standard regs from the baron. Nobody approached without notice, or else they were blown from the water before reaching the dock. The man was insane, but no fool. Many had tried to take Maturo Island, but none ever reached the shore, much less the Castle Kinnison. "Home." The pilot smiled. "Pay attention to that buoy, and do your job," the lieutenant snapped irritably.

  "Aye, sir!" the pilot replied, hiding his annoyance.

  The bastard never seemed to relax or enjoy anything.

  Leaning forward, the pilot shouted into a bamboo tube going down into the deck. "Engine room, give me back spin. Half speed."

  "Back at half, aye, sir!" a muffled voice shouted back.

  There was some heavy mechanical clunks from belowdecks, and then the FT boat noticeably slowed as the propellers began to spin counterclockwise, killing their momentum.

  With practiced ease, the deadly warship coasted to the pier and came to an easy halt alongside the concrete and greenwood dock.

  "All stop," Brandon ordered, rising from his chair. As the crew of PT 264 hurried about, tossing mooring lines to the dockside crew, Brandon hopped off the metal boat and strode quickly along the workers. The nets were neatly folded, a few old slaves repairing rips, and the smell of fish guts was thick in the air, as it should be. If the baron depended entirely upon the villes for food, the sec men of Maturo Island would soon find themselves starved into submission and chained with the rest of the slaves, to toil in the nitrate mines until they died of the white cough. Brandon would rather eat his blaster than let that happen. Fifteen more PT boats were docked at the piers, with six more out on patrol. Every boat was similarly armed with machine guns and torpedo tubes, but only the 264 also sported a rank of Firebirds.

  "Morning, sir! How goes the pirate hunt, sir?" a sec man asked as the frowning officer walked by.

  With a snarl, Brandon backhanded the sec man. "Never ask me the baron's business!" he barked, and marched away.

  "Son of a bitch," the sec man muttered, rising to his feet. He rubbed his hand across his mouth, and it came away streaked with red. "Guess the pirate won this trip."

  "Bad for us," a corporal answered, a hand resting on the shoulder strap of his M-16. "Now Old Iron Ass will make us parade and shit so he won't feel bad."

  "We need a new sec chief," the first man growled softly, touching the fishbone dagger sheathed on his belt.

  "Just let me know if you decide to challenge the man," the corporal said. "I could use your boots."

  "Fuck you, too," he grumbled sullenly.

  "Yeah, pal. Any time."

  The crowd of workers, sec men and slaves parting before him, Brandon reached dry land and stood for a moment, savoring the feeling of it not moving under his boots. He hated the sea, but that was part of the job. So be it.

  With a toothless grin, a hunchback slave harnessed to a rickshaw bowed before the officer, inviting him to climb on the wheeled cart. Needing the exercise, Brandon pushed aside the old woman and strode through the warehouses and cannon bunkers, enjoying the feeling of stretching his legs.

  He glanced toward the distant green hills, seeing the dark areas of burned earth w
here some stupe bastard had made a mistake and a storehouse of black powder had exploded, leveling hundreds of trees and chilling dozens of slaves and sec men. But much more importantly, the fatal mistakes reduced their supply of ammo. Lead was salvaged from the predark ruins—lots of it there—and slaves made more slaves all by themselves. But flash was a major problem. There was only one major source of that, and it didn't belong to Kinnison.

  Reaching a tall flight of stairs cut into the very granite of the mountain, he started to climb at an easy lope. A hundred slaves had died cutting the staircase, and fifty more while decorating it with fancy designs. But that was only fitting for the man who ruled the thousand known islands of the entire world. Once, an outlander found on the beach had claimed to come from the mainland. Brandon shot him in the face on the spot. Such foolish talk could make others think of leaving, undermine the power of the barons and their sec men. Absolutely intolerable.

  At the top of the stairs, the lieutenant walked slowly across fields of manicured lawns edged with flowering gardens. Sec men saluted as he passed.

  Passing a splashing fountain, Brandon headed straight for the front door of the baron's castle. It used to be a post office building, but its thick walls and lack of windows made it a perfect fortress. The glass door had long ago been replaced by thick wood bound by straps of iron. Three of the four doors were closed, the open doorway guarded by an armed sec man standing stiffly at attention.

  "Morning, Private," Brandon said as he tried to enter, but the young sec man stood his ground and didn't move.

  "Halt!" the teenager ordered, and snapped the bolt on his longblaster. "Password, sir!"

  Contemptuously, Brandon sneered at the youngster. "You know who I am and what I do to idiots who annoy me. Now get out of the way!"

  The sec man paled, but swung the barrel of the Weatherby .30-06 rifle toward the sec chief. "Password or die," he said calmly. "Your choice."