by JK Franks
The real truth was Jack would rather face pirates than the possibility of being stranded in the open ocean. No one would ever know they were there, much less come looking, if that happened. Scoots nodded and headed aft toward his small sleeping berth.
Jack went back on deck to enjoy the cool air. The biting little black flies were back, but that was common this time of year. The night was clear for a change, and he took a moment to pray. He knew that they would need all the help they could get tomorrow.
They motored quietly into Slidell just after dawn. The three men on the dock were all familiar to Jack. He had known one of them since childhood. They had been friends in the nearby town of Pass Christian.
“Bill,” he smiled as he shook his friend’s hand, “glad to see you’re still hanging out with the living.”
The weather-beaten man pulled him into a hug. “You’re a lifesaver, Jack. I can’t tell you how happy we were to hear your message.”
Jack knew they needed the supplies, but he was touched by the man’s show of emotion. “Glad to help. We have to look out for one another these days.”
“Amen to that, brother, amen to that,” Bill laughed and invited the guys up to see the goods they’d brought to trade.
The deal was quickly finalized. Sacks and crates came out of the hold of the Marco Polo and were replaced by the goods from the Slidell group. Jack asked his friend what they knew about possible pirates nearby.
“Yep, we know about ’em. They came through here a few weeks back, but we blasted away at ’em ‘n’ they got the message. Seems to be, they’s hittin’ the smaller towns and watching for any stragglers out on the water. All they have is small arms . . . think they may’ve come up from New Orleans.”
“Any idea how many there are?” Scoots asked.
“Can’t rightly say. Guess we saw ’bout sixteen or seventeen? There were four boats, comin’ in, shootin’ up the place. Another larger one about a mile out seemed to be with ’em. It was a big one, had to be a seventy-footer.”
Jack nodded. “Probably where they’re basing out of. I was afraid of that. We have to get around them to get back home.”
“Your boat’s an old patrol boat, ain't it?” one of the men asked.
“Yeah, Canadian Coastal Patrol. It was down in dry dock being retrofitted when the sun cooked us,” Jack replied.
“Hmmm . . . got something that might help—if it still has the fittings, that is,” he smiled as the idea dawned. “Yes, we may have something that’ll work.” The man whispered something to Bill, then left.
Bill looked up and grinned. “You gonna like this, friend.”
Chapter Eight
While the men were working to install the new toys on the Marco Polo, Bill showed Preacher Jack where the town’s remaining church was. Walking into the little building alone, Jack was struck by how enthusiastically the priest came out from behind the makeshift vestibule.
Father Ernesto was a short man in his late fifties. “Come in, come in, my son,” the priest said. His beatific face and the singsong rhythm of his voice put Jack immediately at ease.
“Thank you, brother,” Jack said as he introduced himself.
“You are the man bringing the supplies and medicines?”
“Yes,” Jack answered, looking worried. “There’s not much medicine to spare, but we included what we could. How many survivors are you supporting here?”
“Survivors,” the peaceful little man seemed to mull the word over for several long moments. “You are a man of God, too, no?”
Jack nodded.
“We are being tested, brother. The Lord, he is not so merciful these days. He has allowed us to descend into this pit. None of us are survivors. Dios mio! I am so sorry. Our church was destroyed . . . most of my parishioners are gone. We had at least 25,000 people on that day. Now, I would be surprised if the entire parish is more than a few thousand pitiful, starving souls.”
Jack knew there were volumes of unspoken sadness behind those words. “Father Ernesto, what do you know about the people calling themselves the Messengers?”
The priest's eyes went cold. “They are an abomination.”
“Have you or any of your flock had contact with them?”
“Si, I have seen them. I have seen what they can do. It was they who burned my church. They said I had failed my flock and that I had been judged and found guilty. They made me watch while they set fire to the sanctuary.”
“I’m sorry, Father. But buildings can be replaced—”
“NO!” the man said, cutting him off with undisguised fury. “No . . . you do not understand. My church was not empty! It was full! Full of my people, God’s children. I heard their screams, and I could do nothing to help them. I tried so hard to get free and go to them, but they bound me to a post in front of my church. I could feel the heat, I—I could smell the burning flesh.” The poor man sobbed at the memory.
It took a long time for the priest to speak again. Jack laid a hand on the man’s shoulders and said a quiet prayer for the alleviation of his suffering. Eventually, he looked up at Jack with a pleading look and said, “The Messengers said not to fear. That they were being born anew into the house of the Lord. Do you think that is true?”
Jack wasn’t sure how to answer. He, too, had seen unspeakable horrors since this nightmare began, but nothing like the scene the priest described. “I am sure it is true—they are home in the arms of the Father now,” he soothed, “but they didn’t deserve to be murdered. I hate to ask, but can you tell me what happened, from beginning to end?”
Father Ernesto looked into the flickering candles. “They burned many of the other churches and all of the mosques and synagogues. They say they are Christian, but they are a cancer, spreading hate and judgment. They say God turned his back on us because we abandoned Him. But there is no love, no tolerance, no forgiveness in them.”
Father Ernesto was a broken man, on the verge of losing his faith if the look in his eyes was anything to go on. Jack didn’t think he was the one to pull him back from that edge. He decided to change the conversation. “Padre, I have been reaching out to other religious leaders since this all took place. Just to see if we could help organize our groups, be willing to help others . . . spread some message of hope. I don’t worry too much about doctrine at this point—I feel sure most people who come to my services have at least a slightly different belief system, but we’re all praying to the same God. The church has to take on a new role, or maybe it’s an old role that we need to rediscover. It’s not about the building or the ceremony . . . but something much more basic.”
The priest gave a feeble smile. “The church I attended while growing up in Mexico was the center of our village. Everything happened around the church. It was our school, it was our meeting hall and it was often our shelter. Even with the drug lords running everything around us, the church was our refuge and our strength.”
Jack could see the man was about to drift back in his mind to what he had lost, and so he responded hastily. “Exactly. I think that is our mission again. I don’t know how to combat these terrorists, these extremists, but we must have faith. We must follow the path the Lord has laid for us.”
The two men talked for some time and agreed to talk with each other again when they could. Jack was rising to leave when Ernesto asked him, “What will you do when they come for your people? Will you turn the other cheek?”
Jack couldn’t help himself and laughed a deep, full laugh. “I’m not that kind of preacher, friend. I’ll kill the bastards. Send the demons straight to hell before they can harm anyone else.”
His new friend was obviously a pacifist, but the smile on his face seemed pleased nonetheless. “We all serve in our own way. Right now, I like your way better than my own. Good luck, my son.”
Chapter Nine
Scoots met Jack before he made it back to the dock. He was clearly excited. “You are gonna love this shit. Oh fuck, man, this is awesome.”
Jack smiled, �
��Scoots, I haven’t seen you this happy since you discovered those girlie magazines in the toilet. What has you so fired up?”
The two men rounded the corner and Jack saw for himself. Bill and two of his guys were just stepping off the Marco Polo. Mounted both bow and stern were what looked to be twin .50 caliber machine guns. The belt-fed guns rested on swivel pads and included a deflector shield to protect the gunner.
Bill smiled as Jack stepped onto the boat to take a closer look at the weapons. “Jeezus, Bill! I’m speechless.”
Bill pointed to one of his buddies, “It was all his idea. He’s a—was—a machinist working with a local armorer. Thought these would fit your mounts, didn’t you, Frank?”
Frank smiled at Jack and raised his hand in a small gesture of greeting. “We were working on these for the DEA’s river patrol,” he called up to the preacher. “They were s’posed to be mounted on a Shallow Water Interceptor, but when the shit went down, no one came for ’em. Thought maybe you guys could make good use of ’em. They’ll throw out 900 rounds per minute, so go light on the trigger. We dropped in all the fifty-cal ammo we had.”
Jack was still searching for words to express his thanks. “I don’t know how to repay you for this, boys,” he smiled with relief. “It—it means we actually have a chance to get back home. This may literally save our lives.”
“You are welcome, Preacher,” smiled his friend in return, “but it’s not a completely selfless act . . . we don’t have anything that can take on those pirates out there—now you do. We need to keep tradin’ to survive, not just with you, but the few others who’re struggling to hang on round here. What with the Messengers wreaking havoc to the north, we have to do that by sea. What I’m asking is for you to take the fight to them. Take care o’ the patrol boats, at least. If you can take out the big ship, course, that’d really help.”
Jack was shaking his head now in concern. This was not a deal he’d bargained for. “We’re not soldiers, Bill, not even good sailors. I’m okay with fighting to get through their lines, but I would have no way of knowing how to beat them in a battle.” He sighed as he reckoned the situation. “You’d probably be better off just keeping the guns.”
Jack could see his crew shaking their heads at his response; they liked the new firepower—that much was clear. Overhead, the sun was finally breaking through and erasing the morning chill. A light hint of fog rose from the river. Bill looked around at the gathered men. “Jack, I’ve known you a long time. I would never ask you to sacrifice yourself for us. Just be prepared. If you get attacked, don’t run, turn and fight. Sink who you can. If we send a strong enough message, they’ll move on down the coast to easier pickins. Radio us back and let us know. If you or your guys can come up with a way to take out the mother ship, we would be very indebted. I think it’s in all our best interest that we keep the coastal routes clear.”
Jack had joined Bill back on land and nodded and grasped his friend by the shoulders. “We can do that.” Turning to his crew, he yelled, “Load up, let’s get to open water.”
Bill leaned in close. “One other thing. We got a fella who could probably help if you don’t mind an extra passenger.” Bill motioned to one of the young guys who had been loading ammo cans to come over. “Jack, this here is Abraham. He was a gunner with the Marines and part of our auxiliary river patrol. Grew up near here, family ran a fleet o’ shrimp boats out of Houma . . . He knows the swamps, rivers and ocean—an’ more important, he knows how to use them guns.”
Jack looked at the mountain of a man who seemed to be in his mid-twenties. The boy had a body that looked to be nothing but muscle. Jack held out an open hand. “Nice to meet you, Abraham.”
“Just call me Abe,” he replied, taking Jack’s hand in his bear-like grip, “everyone does.”
The preacher thought it over. He was not eager to let anyone unknown on their boat, much less take them back to Harris Springs and the Aquatic Goddess. “Abe, I appreciate your willingness to go, but know it will most likely be a one-way trip. Not sure when you might get back.”
Bill intervened, speaking in low tones, “Jack you spoke with the Padre, so you know what happened at the church. Abe’s family was Catholic . . .” The rest of the statement remained unspoken. Jack could see Abe’s eyes begin to glisten with tears. “He’s a good kid . . . eats a lot, but he needs a fresh start somewhere else, somewhere safe. He’ll be an asset to you, I promise that.”
This went against the loose rules he and the council had established, but Jack reached his own decision and nodded his head.
“Welcome aboard, son. Get your gear. We’ll leave as soon as you get back.”
Abe smiled and walked up the gangplank empty-handed to the boat. Scoots tossed him a duffle bag that had already been loaded, and Jack realized his crew had already made the decision for him.
“Mutinous bastards,” he said with a wicked laugh. Shaking hands with the men from Slidell and embracing his old friend one last time, he boarded the souped-up boat, and the Polo eased out into the main channel and throttled up.
Chapter Ten
The new guy was up in the wheelhouse directing Scoots as to the best route back to open water. They each assumed the pirates’ patrol boats would have the mouth of the river under surveillance. Abe felt sure he knew where at least one of those pirate boats would be. The plan was to launch a sneak attack on that one, then head directly east as fast as they could. They would watch for pursuers and engage each one singularly with the help of their new mounted guns. That was the plan. And like most battle plans, it fell apart on first contact with the enemy.
The Marco Polo came out of the small tributary thirty yards from where Abe expected the pirate craft to be stationed. He had moved to the lead gunner position, and one of Jack’s crewmen, a guy they called Ginger, was on the aft gun. Tensions were high, and everyone was sweating despite the relatively cool temperature. As they reached the relatively open water, fingers on triggers and ready to unleash a torrent of hot lead down each barrel, they saw . . . absolutely nothing.
“Well, fuck,” remarked Abe. “This is the only smart place to be if they just have small arms.”
“How far from the lake?” Jack asked, referring to the arm of the ocean called Lake Borgne.
“It opens up in about five hundred yards, sir.” Abe replied.
Abe had navigated them down the river called The Rigolets into increasingly narrower channels so that they would not be coming into the ocean from the exact direction of Slidell.
“Scoots, take us out very slowly. All eyes on lookout. Weapons hot, guys.”
They entered the bay and still saw nothing. Jack knew it was decision time. The enemy was out there somewhere, but where?
“Abe—ideas?”
Walking over he pointed down at the charts. “Sir, my guess is that they’re patrolling the Old Pearl River, probably the mouth of it. The mother ship is likely over the horizon there, maybe near Grand Island. If we head due east, we’ll go right between them and probably right into their trap. That’s a lot of water for them to cover though . . . we might get lucky.”
“Or—?” Jack asked, waiting for a better option.
Abe nodded, “We go south, out into open ocean. Sometime around nightfall we cruise past Grand Island. If we spot the mother ship, we decide what to do then.”
“If they have radar we’ll be spotted immediately,” Scoots voiced.
“If they have radar we’ll be spotted no matter what,” Abe replied. “Based on what you said you encountered on the way over, I think we can rule that out. Most likely they’re just using lookouts.” Abe looked to Jack for a decision.
Jack hated the idea of taking the little boat farther out to sea but nodded to Scoots. “Take us south until Abe gives the signal, then make a gradual turn east. Half throttle. We don’t want to get there before dark.”
It was just after 9:00 pm when Scoots first spotted the low-lying island. Its few scrub trees and grass gave the only sign that anythin
g but ocean was there. They were running at a low idle, almost silent as they watched and, more importantly, listened; sound travels well over open water. So far, they had noticed nothing unusual. They had taken their time approaching the island, certain the mother ship was nearby.
Abe was the first to spot anything. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a spark of light in the darkness. When he turned to look in that direction, he saw nothing. Still, he motioned for the other men to scan the area while he trained one of the .50 cals in that direction.
Jack trusted the man’s younger eyes; all he could see were different shades of dark. The trust was rewarded moments later when Abe suddenly unleashed a long volley of rounds a hundred yards downrange. The light of the machine guns illuminated a speedboat lying in wait behind a clump of seagrass. The weapon tore through bodies and fiberglass indiscriminately. The craft jerked sideways with each round fired. As quickly as the shots began, they were silenced. Scoots opened her up, angling away from the carnage and into deep water. Everyone’s ears rang.
A half-mile later they cut engines and drifted in the darkness, waiting for their hearing to return to normal. They could now hear the sounds of multiple engines converging on the previous location. “I think we caught ’em sleeping,” Abe said with an air of satisfaction. Jack was just hoping it hadn’t been a boatload of fishermen. He struggled with the rules of his new world; doubts like that could get you killed.
The Gulf current was quickly pulling them eastward, and even without the engine running, they were slipping past the other boats swiftly. They could hear the indistinct voices and shouts of the pirates as they reached their fallen associates. Scoots leaned over and whispered, “Ready for engines Cap’n?”
