Broken Tide | Book 4 | Backflow

by Richardson, Marcus

  Cami walked down the hall past all the smiling, brave young soldiers—some in color some in black and white—and followed Marty into the living room. He'd already settled himself into a threadbare, heavily cushioned easy chair. His head lay against the back, and his eyes closed as he sighed and relaxed his gaunt, tired frame into the chair. Kirk laid at his feet and curled up into a ball smaller than Cami thought possible for a dog his size. Marty lifted one palsied hand and beckoned Cami to come into the room without even opening his eyes. “Find a seat, missy,” he whispered.

  Alarmed at the weakness Marty displayed, Cami moved into the room, found a wooden chair near a card table in the corner and removed the books and weathered papers that had been stacked on top. She brought the chair over to sit within a foot of Marty. "What's going on?" she asked. "How are you feeling?"

  "Pretty good…” Marty said as he exhaled. "Just tired. All this fighting…just plumb wore me out, that's all, missy. Been up too many nights in a row getting my toys ready.”

  “Toys?”

  Marty grinned. “Oh, just a few...things...I’ve collected over the years. The alphabet soup agencies would all likely have my head on a plate for most of ‘em, but what they don’t know ain’t gonna hurt ‘em.” He laughed. “Suppose all that don’t even matter anymore, huh?”

  “Marty...”

  He rolled his head and looked at her. “Oh, hush now, missy—ain't no use in worrying about me—I’ll be right as rain tomorrow, you'll see."

  Cami sat back and crossed her arms, dubious. "Well if you're tired, I'll let you rest. I just wanted to run something by you, but I think you need sleep more than anything. You need any food? Something to drink? I can get it for you and put it here on the end table…?”

  Marty smiled and opened his rheumy eyes. "Oh, don't fret about me. I'm fine, missy. I’ll get up and get something in a minute. I wanted to get these toys ready in case we need to use ‘em.”

  “Are they anything like that monster rifle you used the other day?”

  Marty grinned. “Something like that. Johnny Douglass knows. He’s helped me get the parts to some of my surprises. Now—what is it you wanted to talk to me about?"

  Cami hesitated for a moment and chewed her lower lip.

  "What is it? Ain't got time to sit here and watch you worry that lip until it bleeds. If you're not gonna fess up, then I'm gonna take a nap. Been up most of the night manning the nets. Ain’t nothin’ but bad news out there…”

  “What kind of bad news?”

  “Oh,” Marty exhaled, “the usual…cities on the coast are falling into ruins, survivors are dying of starvation…the Middle East war is heating up…there’s talk Russia might join Iran against Israel…but there ain’t much of Iran left to worry about.”

  “Why?”

  Marty grinned. “Israel nuked ‘em…Europe’s done lost its mind. Taiwan fell…Japan and China are on the brink of war…it’s a hot mess out there.”

  Cami gripped the sides of the wooden chair seat and nodded. "Okay, well...that wasn’t what I wanted to hear…”

  “What’d you come over here and bother me for?”

  Cami sighed. “Amber and Mitch and…well pretty much everybody at my place…they want to put together a little celebration party. Like a victory celebration." Cami looked down. “In light of what you just told me, though, I think that’s—“

  “A stupid idea?” Marty arched one grayed, bushy caterpillar of an eyebrow. "A victory celebration…hmmm…victory over what?"

  Cami shrugged. "Death I guess. We beat back those thugs and their armored car and all the wannabe soldiers…they would've stolen the supplies from us that we needed to survive. We lost three good people in the fight yesterday…”

  Marty grunted. “Aha…I was wonderin’ when you’d get around to survivor’s guilt.”

  “No, I—“

  Marty held up a hand. “We survived, they didn’t. You need to get over that. It's our job to make sure the cause is worth their sacrifice.”

  "But is it really worthy of a party? Those men died because of me…”

  “They did—and if you do your job and do it right, more men are going to die because of your decisions. But more people will live because of you, too. How many of the bad guys did we take out?"

  Cami blinked at the sudden change in the conversation. She didn't have time to dwell on her own feelings and answered like a robot. “Nineteen. Nineteen confirmed kills."

  "Good," Marty said as he closed his eyes. "Anybody that has a force that size…losing almost twenty men is gonna be a pretty big setback. I imagine they’re off licking their wounds somewhere, trying to figure out what their next move is. Certainly, won't be coming back here in the next couple days, that's for sure."

  Cami nodded. "That makes sense…so maybe it is safe for us to…let loose a little bit?”

  Marty shrugged, an incremental movement of one shoulder. "Don't suppose it’ll hurt. Can’t imagine folks have much food to throw a party these days, though.”

  "Well, one of the men on the other side of the neighborhood bagged a deer the other day. He’s single, so he's got all that meat to himself and no freezer to put it in. I don't think he knows how to sun cure meat like the Indians did…”

  "I do," Marty said with a grin. "Got books on how to do it, too. But I don't think that's the right course. I think a little block party might do everybody some good.

  "Maybe…” Cami admitted. "But the problem is, do we invite…you know?"

  "The thugs that attacked you and tried to burn my house down over my head? Absolutely."

  Cami coughed in surprise. The stuffy odor of the house went straight to her nose and tickled her throat. "Excuse me? That wasn’t the reaction I was expecting…I don't even know if the others have thought about that yet," Cami said as she gestured toward her own house. "But Darien and his crew—“

  “Oho?” Marty muttered. "We’re on a first name basis now, are we?”

  Cami blushed. "Not by choice, but I didn't have time during all the fighting to ask for Mr. Flynt. It's just easier to go with first names—besides, without him and his…crew…we wouldn't have been able to hold off simultaneous attacks on both entrances to the neighborhood. Some of his men are actually pretty good shots."

  Marty leveled a dark glare at her. “That should be a warning."

  Cami nodded. "It was—it is…that's why I'm so torn about doing this block party thing. Who's to say if we’re all gathered in celebration that Darien and his crew don't decide to help themselves to whatever supplies people have left? Or do something worse? We’ll all be gathered together in one spot—“

  "And almost everybody will be armed," Marty said. "I studied how this Flynt moved during the attack. He's methodical, not without intelligence, but not trained. He won't think of things like a military commander will, he’s not strategic.” He paused to catch his breath. “But the man has some critical thinking skills. Don't underestimate him—or those animals he controls."

  Cami leaned back in her chair and spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness. "Then what are we supposed to do? I can't make everybody happy and have this party and leave us all exposed to Darien double-crossing us."

  Marty cackled, a sound which quickly turned into another coughing fit. He wheezed and took a deep shuddering breath. "The solution’s simple, missy. Invite them, too."

  "What?” Cami blurted.

  "Sure…” Marty explained with a sly grin. “Invite them to the party, but make sure Harriet Spalding is on board. Try to get her to take the lead on this—she'll want to have it at her place…she’s got the biggest yard in the whole dang neighborhood, and she loves doing crap like this," Marty said as he spat the words. "It'll make her feel important, make her think like she's gaining the trust of the community again. She’ll be on board, trust me."

  “I…I don't know, I think I'd feel safer having it at my place, where I know we can keep things under control…”

  "That's not the point, missy. Like
I said, encourage everybody to be armed. Ain't nobody gonna start nothing with that many people packing guns. But if you have it at her place, and you know this Flynt is shacking up with her—this is a perfect opportunity to get some valuable, behind-the-lines intel."

  Cami laughed. "Marty Price…are you suggesting we throw the party at Harriet's place just so we can get some reconnaissance done on Flynt and his men, their situation, and their stockpiles?"

  Marty cackled again and slapped his own thigh, weakly. "Now you’re gettin’ the hang of this commander stuff. You gotta think like a devious old man.” He sighed and looked at her. “Let's face it, missy, you ain’t no Rambo.” He held up a hand. “But you got brains, and you got guts. That's more than two thirds of the commanding officers I ever served under. Use them well, and use your advantages to downplay your disadvantages, and you’ll be all right…and so will the people that follow you."

  Cami leaned back in her chair and fidgeted with her ponytail. "I don't know…it’s awful risky…”

  “Is it any riskier than creating roadblocks across your neighborhood and starting a gunfight with heavily armed troops right outside your own front door?"

  "Well…when you put it that way…”

  "Course I put it that way, missy. I'm trying to lead you to a conclusion. Now go on, go organize your little shindig. Make sure you get the Spalding woman involved, and then you come tell me all about it when it's over."

  "Oh, no…you're coming with me."

  Marty opened his eyes wide. "What makes you think I'd set foot in that woman's house?"

  "What makes you think anyone would believe a crotchety old man to be any kind of threat? I bet they think you can’t even see more than a foot beyond your own nose…” Cami said with her own sly grin.

  Marty opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. He sat still for a moment, staring at Cami, then a wide, devilish smile spread across his wrinkled face. "Missy, I'm starting to like the way you think."

  Chapter 6

  Long Island Sound

  Off the coast of Manhattan Island

  Reese looked up as he held the first aid bag open for Jo. She cursed and hissed air through her teeth as she dug around inside the bag and muttered about her luck. The 87-foot Coast Guard cutter had taken up position next to the half-sunk yacht, and the crew was engaged with saving as many people from the water as possible. The patrol boat’s aluminum hulled cutterboat sped over and circled Intrepid.

  Meanwhile, Reese frowned at the two crewmen aboard the cutterboat as they stood by with rifles aimed at him. The man behind the wheel yelled across the water. "Put any weapons down if you have them and raise your hands!"

  "I can’t!” Reese yelled back. “She's wounded—I’m trying to help her!"

  “Put your—“ the driver started to repeat.

  Reese cut him off. “If you're gonna shoot, then go ahead and do it! Otherwise leave us alone for a few minutes," Reese said as he ignored the Coast Guard crew and turned back to Jo. "What else can I do?"

  "Try to remember that they're not the enemy," Jo said as she tried to clean off the gash in her leg, a bloodied furrow created by a lucky bullet. "That's gonna leave a mark," she muttered through clenched teeth.

  Reese grunted. He tore open a bandage and handed it to her so she could put pressure on the wound. Intrepid shuddered as the cutterboat bumped up next to it, and one of the crew climbed aboard, the rifle now held with the barrel pointed toward the sky.

  "She okay?"

  Reese turned and glanced at the blue-clad coastie in his bright orange life vest. "I don't know, I'm not a doctor. All I know is she got shot while we were trying to help you guys out, and now you're acting like we're the bad guys!"

  The Coast Guardsman slung his M4 over one shoulder and pulled a bag around from his back. "You’d be a little suspicious too, if you were attacked as many times as we've been the last two weeks," he muttered. “I’m Petty Officer Riley Gellar—I'm a medic, let me help."

  Reese grudgingly stepped aside and let the man kneel by Jo. "May I?" he asked, his hands hovering over her wound.

  "Be my guest," she said and peeled back the blood-soaked bandage. "Haven't had this many younger men interested in my leg in a long time," she chuckled.

  Gellar looked up at her and grinned, then unzipped his bag and put on a pair of latex gloves. "Have you irrigated the wound yet?" he asked while he prepped his hands.

  Jo shook her head. "Didn't have nothing to wash it with."

  He pulled out a plastic vial and attached a small rubber tip to it. "This is a saline solution to clean the wound channel, so we can see what we’ve got to work with.” He paused, then looked at Reese. "This may hurt a bit."

  "Listen here, son,” Jo said and snapped her fingers at the coastie. “I’m a big girl—-don’t look at him, look at me. I can handle it. This ain’t the first time I've been shot."

  Gellar’s eyebrows climbed up to his hairline. "Yes ma'am," he said. He squeezed the tube, and the sterile solution squirted out onto Jo's leg to wash the blood and grime away from the open wound. “Ooooh, that hurts more’n a burnt steak at a bar-b-que.”

  She hissed and slapped at the deck.

  "Not the first time you've been shot?” asked Reese. He pointed at her and then at his chest. “There's a story in there you're going to have to tell me…”

  She glared up at him but said nothing.

  "Well, good news is,” Gellar announced, “this looks like a relatively shallow wound channel…I don't see any debris in there," he said as he peered at the injury. "It's a bleeder, that's for sure. We can pack it with some gauze for now and wrap it up. Gonna have to leave a drainage port open for a while. It's too wide to stitch up…” he said as he sat back. He nodded to himself. "Yep, gonna need to let that drain while it heals.”

  Gellar tended Jo, Reese turned and watched Tiberia ghost silently next to Intrepid’s port side. The Coast Guard crew kept an eye on Byron and Tony, but they made sure to keep their weapons pointed in safe directions. The medic looked up at Reese. "They friends of yours?”

  Reese nodded. “Yeah, we all sailed out of Boston together."

  "Boston?" asked Gellar. “What are you guys doing down here? You don't sound like you're from Boston…”

  "Why does everybody keep saying that?" Jo muttered.

  "It's kind of a long story," Reese muttered with a shrug.

  "Hey, Gellar,” the cutterboat driver yelled. “Cap’n wants to see somebody—bring the skipper."

  “Aye, chief,” he replied. Gellar stood and peeled off his bloodied latex exam gloves. "That should hold you for a while,” he said to Jo. “As long as you keep it clean and let it drain, you should be just fine in a couple weeks." He frowned and tucked the used gloves into a little plastic baggie which then went into his pouch before he zipped it up. "Assuming it doesn't get infected…”

  "It's all right," Jo said as she waved off his concern and sat up. "We got some antibiotics."

  Gellar nodded, then turned to Reese. "You the skipper of this rig?"

  Reese nodded. "I suppose I am," he said as he caught a line tossed from Tony to tie the two sailboats together. "That mean you want to take me somewhere? We didn't do anything wrong—“

  Gellar held his hand up to stop Reese's protest. "I'm not saying you did. All I know is the captain told me to bring you back. Since you were in the firefight, I don't see how there's much of a choice in the matter. You going to come peacefully?"

  Reese sighed. "Like you said, I guess I don't have much choice in the matter." He looked down at Jo. "You okay?"

  "We'll look after her," Byron said as he climbed aboard Intrepid. He reached out and shook Gellar’s hand. "Byron Jennings. I own and skipper Tiberia, there," he said, and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "This is Intrepid, she belongs to friends of my wife and I. They bequeathed her to us when they…after the tsunami hit Portsmouth."

  Gellar frowned. “New Hampshire?"

  Byron nodded. "We were sailing south to Baltimore.
Had to stop in Boston for medical supplies and ran into Reese and Jo here," Byron said. "They're good people, chief. We wouldn't be here—my wife wouldn't be alive if it weren't for them."

  "I'll be sure to let the captain know,” Gellar said with a final nod to Byron and Jo. “If you'll follow me," he said to Reese.

  “It's okay," Byron muttered to Reese when he hesitated. "It's the Coast Guard, Reese. The good guys, remember?"

  Reese turned and looked at the waiting crewmen on the cutterboat, all armed with M-4s, bulletproof vests and ballistic helmets. "I'm not sure anybody's a good guy anymore…” Reese muttered, but he followed the Coast Guard medic just the same and climbed over the slick side of the cutterboat. He took a seat in between the frowning coasties for the bumpy—if swift—ride back to the patrol boat.

  "What’s she called?" Reese yelled over the roar of the outboard.

  "It's the Sailfish," Gellar yelled back. “Marine Protector-class patrol boat—but don’t let cap’n hear you call her a ‘patrol boat.’ She’s a cutter. We mostly work drug and immigration interdiction, search and rescue…stuff like that…” He shrugged. "Never been in a gunfight before. Crazy times, man."

  “Stow that," barked the driver. "He can talk to the captain."

  “Sir,” Gellar said in a tight voice, then fell silent.

  Reese remained quiet while the driver expertly maneuvered next to the much bigger Sailfish and pulled astern near the lowered ramp that cut through the cutter’s transom. One of the crew tossed a line down to the cutterboat, which was tied to a cleat on the front, and a powerful windlass aboard Sailfish pulled the smaller boat right up the ramp.

  A few seconds later, once the cutterboat was secured, Reese stepped over the side and dusted his hands on his pants as he nodded in greeting at the half dozen crew who stood with weapons at the ready.

  "Thanks for the nice warm welcome, fellas,” Reese said with a lopsided grin.

  A young woman in a Coast Guard blue jumpsuit leaned over the pilot house railing above them and peered down at Reese and the gaggle of armed crewmen. "That him?"