“Any more we can do? Anything we’ve overlooked?”
Metcalf shook his head. “Not from this end. The Coast Guard cutter is only fifteen minutes away and the nuclear sub is not far behind.”
“Neither will arrive in time.”
“Perhaps the people on the steamboat can somehow stall the tugboat until…” Metcalf didn’t finish.
“You don’t really believe in miracles, do you, Clayton?”
“No, I guess I don’t.”
74
A Maelstrom of automatic weapons fire lashed into the Stonewall Jackson as Lee Tong’s crew opened up at three hundred yards. Bullets hummed and whistled, splintering the gleaming white wood and gingerbread carvings on the rails and deck cabins, clanging and ricocheting off the ship’s bronze bell. The huge unglazed window in the pilothouse disintegrated into silvery fragments. Inside, Captain Belcheron was stunned by a shell that grazed the top of his head and turned his white hair red. His vision blurred and went double, but he hung on to the spokes of the great wheel with savage determination while hawking tobacco juice out the broken window.
The calliope player, protected by a forest of brass plumbing, began playing “Yellow Rose of Texas,” which fell on several flat tones as holes suddenly appeared in his steam whistles.
On the main deck, Major Laroche and his regiment, along with Pitt and Giordino, crouched out of sight. The cotton bales made strong defensive works, and no bullets penetrated. The open boiler area behind the main staircase caught the worst of it. Two of McGeen’s stokers were hit and the overhead tubing was penetrated, allowing steam to escape in scalding streams. McGeen took his hat off the pressure gauge. It was pegged in the red. He expelled a long sigh. A miracle nothing had burst, he thought. The rivets were straining on the boilers. He quickly began spinning relief valves to let off the immense pressure in preparation for the coming collision.
The Stonewall Jackson’s paddle wheels were still driving her at twenty miles an hour. If she had to die, she was not going to end up like her former sisters, rotting away in some forgotten bayou or broken up for wharf wood. She was going out a legend and ending her life on the water in style.
Brushing aside the waves that pounded her bow, shrugging off the frightful torrent of lead that shredded her flimsy superstructure, she forged ahead.
Lee Tong watched in bitter fascination as the steamboat came on steadily. He stood in an open hatch on the barge and poured a stream of bullets at her, hoping to hit a vital part and slow her down. But he might as well have been shooting air pellets at a rampaging elephant.
He set aside his Steyr-Mannlicher carbine and raised the binoculars. None of the crew was visible behind the barricade of cotton bales. Even the sieved pilothouse looked deserted. The gold letters of the smashed nameplate were visible, but all he could make out was the name JACKSON.
The flat bow was pointed square for the towboat’s port side. It was a stupid, futile gesture, he reasoned, a stalling technique, nothing more. In spite of its superior size, the wooden paddle steamer could not expect to damage the towboat’s steel hull.
He retrieved the Steyr-Mannlicher, inserted another ammo clip and concentrated his fire into the pilothouse in an attempt to damage the helm.
Sandecker and Metcalf watched too.
They sat captivated by the hopeless, irresistible magnificence of it all. Radio contact was attempted with the steamboat, but there was no response. Captain Belcheron had been too busy to answer, and the old river rat didn’t think he had anything worth saying anyway.
Metcalf called Lieutenant Grant. “Spiral in closer,” he ordered.
Grant acknowledged and made a series of tight banks over the vessels below. The detail of the towboat was quite sharp. They could pick out nearly thirty men blasting away across the water. The steamboat, however, was obscured by the smoke shooting from her stacks and great clouds of exhaust steam spurting out of the “scape pipes” aft of the pilothouse.
“She’ll bash herself to bits when she strikes,” said Sandecker.
“It’s glorious but meaningless,” Metcalf muttered.
“Give them credit. They’re doing more than we can.”
Metcalf nodded slowly. “Yes, we can’t take that away from them.”
Sandecker came out of his chair and pointed. “Look there, on the steamboat where the wind has blown the smoke off to the side.”
“What is it?”
“Isn’t that a pair of cannon?”
Metcalf came alert. “By God, you’re right. They look like old monuments from a town park.”
At two hundred yards Laroche raised his sword and yelled, “Batteries one and two, train and prime your guns.”
“Battery one primed and aimed,” shouted back a man in antique wire spectacles.
“Battery two ready, Major.”
“Then fire!”
The lanyards were jerked and the two antique cannon belched their loads of ballbearing grapeshot from their muzzles in earsplitting claps. The first shot actually penetrated the side of the tow-boat, crashing into the galley and mangling the ovens. The second soared into the pilothouse, taking off Captain Pujon’s head and carrying away the wheel. Dazed by the unexpected barrage, Lee Tong’s men slackened their fire for several seconds, recovered and opened up with renewed ferocity, concentrating on the narrow slits between the cotton bales where the cannon barrels protruded.
Now the smoothbores were run back while the artillery men quickly rammed home the sponges and began reloading. Bullets whined over their heads and shoulders, and one man was struck in the neck. But in less than a minute the old Napoleons were ready to blast again.
“Aim for the cables!” Pitt shouted. “Cut the barge away!”
Laroche nodded and relayed Pitt’s orders. The guns were run out and the next broadside swept the tow-boat’s bow, causing an explosion of coiled rope and cable, but die tenacious grip on the barge remained unbroken.
Coldly, almost contemptuous of the deadly blitz that swept the Stonewall Jackson, the make-believe soldiers lined up the sights on their single-shot muskets and waited for the command to tire.
Only two hundred yards separated the vessels when Laroche raised his sword again. “Firing rank, take aim. Okay, boys, give ‘em hell. Fire!”
The front of the steamboat exploded in a tremendous torrent of fire and smoke. The towboat was raked with a seemingly solid wall of minie bullets. The effect was devastating. Glass dissolved in every port and window, paint chips flew off the bulkheads and bodies began falling, deluging the decks with blood.
Before Lee Tong’s gunners could recover, Pitt stitched the towboat from bow to stern with a steady stream of fire from the Thompson. Giordino hunched against the cotton barricade, waiting for the range to close to fire the revolver, watching in rapt interest as the second and third ranks ran through the dozen cumbersome procedures of rearming a muzzle-loading musket.
The Confederates laid down a killing fire. Volley after volley followed in succession, almost every other shot striking flesh and bone. The smoke and shattering sounds were punctuated by the cries of the wounded. Laroche, swept away by the carnage and commotion, thundered and swore at the top of his lungs, prodding his sharpshooters to aim true, exhorting the loaders to move more rapidly.
One minute passed, two, then three, as the fighting reached a savage pitch. Fire broke out on the Jackson and flames soared up her wooden sides. In the pilothouse, Captain Belcheron yanked on the whistle cord and shouted into the voice tube leading to McGeen in the engine area. The riflemen ceased their fire and everyone braced themselves for the approaching collision.
A strange, unearthly silence fell over the steamboat as the crack of the guns faded and the haunting wail of the calliope died away. She was like a boxer who had taken a fearful beating from a far stronger adversary and could take no more, but had somehow reached deep into her exhausted reserves for one last knockout punch.
She struck the towboat square amidships with a rumbling crunch
that knocked over the cotton-bale barricade, crushing back her bow by six feet as planks and beams gave way like laths. Both stacks fell forward, throwing sparks and smoke over the battle that rapidly resumed its intensity. Guns fired at point-blank range. The support ropes burned through and the landing stages dropped onto the towboat’s decks like great claws gripping the two vessels fast together.
“Fix bayonets!” Laroche boomed.
Someone broke out the regiment’s battle flag and began waving it wildly in the air. Muskets were reloaded and bayonets attached. The calliope player had returned to his post and was pounding out “Dixie” once again. Pitt was amazed that no one showed any sign of fear. Instead, there was a general feeling of uncontrolled delirium. He couldn’t help thinking he’d somehow crossed a time barrier into the past.
Laroche whipped off his officer’s hat, hung it on the tip of his sword and raised it into the air. “Sixth Louisiana!” he cried. “Go git ‘em!”
Screaming the rebel yell like demons emerging from the center of the earth, the men in gray stormed on board the towboat. Laroche was struck in the chin and one knee, but hobbled and pressed on. Pitt laid down a covering fire until the last cartridge poured from the Thompson. Then he laid the gun on a cotton bale and charged after Giordino, who hopped across a landing stage, favoring his injured leg and firing the revolver like a wild man. McGeen and his boiler crew followed, wielding their shovels like clubs.
Bougainville’s men bore no resemblance to their attackers. They were hired killers, ruthless men who offered no mercy nor expected it, but they were not prepared for the incredible onslaught of the Southerners and made the mistake of leaping from the protected steel bulkheads and meeting the surge head-on.
The Stonewall Jackson was wreathed in fire. The artillery men fired one last volley at the towboat, aiming forward of the men fighting amidships, their shot sweeping away the cables attached to the barge. Shoved sideways by the continued momentum of the steamboat, the two steel vessels jackknifed around her crushed bow.
The Sixth Louisiana overran the decks, lunging with their bayonets, but keeping up a deadly rate of fire. There were a score of individual hand-to-hand struggles, the five-foot Springfield musket and two-foot bayonet making a nasty close-in weapon. None of the weekend soldiers paused; they fought with a strange kind of recklessness, too caught up in the unimaginable din and excitement to be afraid.
Giordino didn’t feel the blow. He was steadily advancing into the crew’s quarters, firing at any Oriental face that showed itself when suddenly he was flat on his face, a bullet breaking the calf bone of his good leg.
Pitt lifted Giordino under the arms and dragged him into an empty passageway. “You’re not armor-plated, you know.”
“Where in hell have you been?” Giordino’s voice tensed as the pain increased.
“Staying out of the way,” Pitt replied. “I’m not armed.”
Giordino handed him the Le Mat revolver. “Take this. I’m through for the day anyway.”
Pitt gave his friend a half-smile. “Sorry to leave you, but I’ve got to get inside the barge.”
Giordino opened his mouth to make an offhand reply, but Pitt was already gone. Ten seconds and he was snaking through the debris on the towboat’s bow. He was almost too late. A head and pair of shoulders raised from a hatch and fired off a burst. Pitt felt the passing bullets fan his hair and cheek. He dropped to the railing and rolled over the side into the sea.
Further aft, the Bougainville crew grimly hung on, obstinately giving way until they were finally overwhelmed by gray uniforms. The shouting and the gunfire slackened and went silent. The Confederate battle flag was run up the towboat’s radio mast and the fight was over.
The amateur soldiers of the Sixth Louisiana Regiment had handled themselves well. Surprisingly, none had been killed in the melee. Eighteen were wounded, only two seriously. Laroche staggered from the midst of his cheering men and sagged to the deck beside Giordino. He reached over and the two bleeding men solemnly shook hands.
“Congratulations, Major,” Giordino said. “You just made the playoffs.”
A big grin spread across Laroche’s bloodied face. “By God, we whipped ‘em good, didn’t we?”
Lee Tong emptied his weapon at the figure on the bow of the towboat, observing it fall into the water. Then he slumped against the edge of the hatch and watched the Confederate battle flag flutter in the gulf breeze.
With a kind of detachment, he accepted the unexpected disaster which had overtaken his carefully conceived operation. His crew was either dead or prisoner, and his escape ship was destroyed. Yet he was not ready to oblige his unknown opponents by surrendering. He was determined to carry out his grandmother’s bargain with Moran and take his chances on escaping later.
He dropped down the side ladder of the elevator shaft into the laboratory quarters and ran along the main corridor until he came to the door of the chamber that held the isolation cocoons. He entered and peered through the insulated plastic lid at the body within the first one. Vince Margolin stared back, his body too numb to respond, his mind too drugged to comprehend.
Lee Tong moved to the next cocoon and looked down at the serene, sleeping face of Loren Smith. She was heavily sedated and in a deep state of unconsciousness. Her death would be a waste, he thought. But she could not be allowed to live and testify. He leaned over and opened the cover and stroked her hair, staring at her through half-open eyes.
He had killed countless men, their features forgotten less than seconds after their death. But the faces of the women lingered. He remembered the first, so many years ago on a tramp steamer in the middle of the Pacific Ocean: her haunting expression of bewilderment as her chained nude body was dropped over the side.
“Nice place you have here,” came a voice from the doorway, “but your elevator is out of order.”
Lee Tong spun around and gaped at the man who stood wet and dripping, pointing a strange antique revolver at his chest.
“You!” he gasped.
Pitt’s face — tired, haggard and dark with beard stubble — lit up in a smile. “Lee Tong Bougainville. What a coincidence.”
“You’re alive!”
“A trite observation.”
“And responsible for all this: those mad men in the old uniforms, the riverboat…”
“The best I could arrange on the spur of the moment,” Pitt said apologetically.
Lee Tong’s moment of utter confusion passed and he slowly curled his finger around the trigger of the Steyr-Mannlicher that hung loosely in one hand, muzzle aimed at the carpeted deck.
“Why have you pursued my grandmother and me, Mr. Pitt?” he demanded, stalling. “Why have you set out to wreck Bougainville Maritime?”
“That’s like Hitler asking why the Allies invaded Europe. In my case, you were responsible for the death of a friend.”
“Who?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Pitt indifferently. “You never met her.”
Lee Tong swung up the barrel of his carbine and pulled the trigger.
Pitt was faster, but Giordino had used up the last cartridge and the revolver’s hammer fell on an empty cylinder. He stiffened, expecting the impact of a bullet.
It never came.
Lee Tong had forgotten to insert a new clip after firing his final round at Pitt on the towboat. He lowered the carbine, his lips stretched into an inscrutable smile. “It seems we have a standoff, Mr. Pitt.”
“Only temporary,” said Pitt, recocking the hammer and keeping the revolver raised and aimed. “My people will be coming aboard any minute now.”
Lee Tong sighed and relaxed. “Then I can do little else but surrender and wait for arrest.”
“You’ll never stand trial.”
The smile turned into a sneer. “That’s not for you to decide. Besides, you’re hardly in a position to—”
Suddenly he flipped the carbine around, gripping the barrel and raising it as a club. The rifle butt was on a vicious do
wnswing when Pitt squeezed the trigger and blasted Lee Tong in the throat with the barrel loaded with buckshot. The carbine poised in midair and then fell from his hand as he stumbled backward until striking the wall and dropping heavily to the deck.
Pitt left him where he lay and threw off the cover over Loren’s cocoon. He gently lifted her out and carried her to the open elevator. He checked the circuit breakers and found them on, but there was still no response from the lift motors when he pressed the “up” button.
He had no way of knowing the generators that provided electricity to the barge had run out of fuel and shut down, leaving only the emergency battery power to illuminate the overhead lighting. Scrounging through a supply locker, he found a rope, which he tied under Loren’s arms. Then he pulled himself through the elevator roof’s trapdoor and scaled the shaft ladder to the top deck of the barge.
Slowly, gently, he eased Loren’s body upward until she lay on the rusting deck. Winded, he took a minute to catch his breath and look around. The Stonewall Jackson was still burning fiercely, but the flames were being fought with fire hoses from the towboat. About two miles to the west a white Coast Guard cutter was driving through the light swells toward their position, while to the south he could just make out the sail tower of a nuclear submarine.
Taking a short length of the rope, Pitt tied Loren loosely to a cleat so she wouldn’t roll into the sea, then he returned below. When he entered the isolation chamber again, Lee Tong was gone. A trail of blood led up the corridor and ended at an open hatch to a storage deck below. He saw no reason to waste time on a dying murderer and turned to rescue the Vice President.
Before he took two steps, a tremendous blast lifted him off his feet and hurled him face downward twenty feet away. The impact from the concussion drove the breath from his lungs and the ringing in his ears prevented him from hearing the sea rush in through a gaping hole torn in the hull of the barge.
Pitt awkwardly raised himself to his hands and knees and tried to orient himself. Then slowly, as the haze before his eyes melted away, he realized what had happened and what was coming. Lee Tong had detonated an explosive charge before he died and already the water was flowing across a corridor deck.
Deep Six dp-7 Page 42
