Captain Riley (The Captain Riley Adventures Book 1)

by Fernando Gamboa

  Hemorrhaging from the atrocious wound in its side, the Deimos, becoming unstuck, could hold no longer and keeled over, sinking into the ocean slowly, irrevocably.

  “Stupor” does not come close to describing the state of the two men on the verge of freezing who had watched that spectacle from the water. It would be like saying Julius Caesar felt “a bit disappointed” when Brutus stabbed him on the steps of the Senate.

  Riley and Jack were so perplexed, they just floated with their mouths open. The mangled bow of the attacking ship was only about thirty feet away. Someone had saved them—and they both knew who. They’d realized it from the moment they’d seen the attacking ship, but neither had said the magic word. It was as if acknowledging it would be accepting a new and incomprehensible reality . . . one of collective insanity.

  “It’s . . .” Jack stammered, pointing, “it’s . . . the Pingarrón.”

  Riley couldn’t believe it was there in front of him, ablaze. His eyes traced the outline of the ship he knew so well, from the smashed bow to the deck and the superstructure, the second deck, the reconstructed bridge, the hole-ridden lounge, the half smokestack, and the rounded back end with a burning flag on the mast.

  “But . . . how?” he mumbled at last. “Where’d it come from?”

  Questions rushed through his head faster than he could speak. He didn’t understand how his crew had been able to appear out of nowhere. How did they find them in the immensity of the Atlantic Ocean? How did they have such good timing, and above all, why? Why had they ignored his order to head for the Azores? Why save them by sacrificing themselves?

  “See . . .” he said, his voice shaking with cold and anxiety, sure Jack would know what he meant. “See anyone?”

  Despite the intense fire, it was hard to see anything but twisted shadows and reflections in the water. The superstructure of the Deimos was now sticking up at an angle out of the water. The Pingarrón was behind it, burning.

  “Maybe they . . . jumped off,” Jack said hopefully.

  “Maybe,” Riley said, looking around, but there was no one.

  They knew the Deimos had suffered irreparable damage. Although still afloat, the Pingarrón, many times smaller, would’ve also suffered severe damage to the keel below the flotation line. Like the German ship, the faithful smuggling freighter was mortally wounded and had made its last voyage.

  Against the backdrop of the flames, shadows jumped from the superstructure of the Deimos, which disappeared under the water amid splashing and calls for help or whatever Germans say when they’re drowning. No one jumped from the Pingarrón. No screams, nothing that indicated anyone was alive.

  Riley shuddered when he saw his boat lazily keel forward.

  It didn’t matter, he knew, but the sight filled him with unbearable grief.

  Soon, the last antenna of the Deimos had completely disappeared, and there was no sign of the ship or its crew—not even the groan of a survivor, who would not have lasted long anyway without a life jacket.

  The Pingarrón, on the other hand, had run out of wood and fuel to burn but was still miraculously afloat. It had dipped enough for the water to reach six feet below the deck. The holds were probably already flooded, and only a temporary air pocket in its frame could’ve kept it on the surface.

  But that was not Riley’s main concern.

  With the last of their energy, he and Jack had approached their charred ship and screamed the names of its crew. The only response was deathly silence.

  They couldn’t board the ship because they had no ladder and no energy, and by the time the bulwark would lower enough for them to possibly climb over, there would be no reason to go, since the ship would sink soon.

  And Riley knew he and Jack would be frozen corpses by then.

  “Jack . . .” Riley looked around. “Wh-where . . . ?”

  Riley’s body, contorted and stiff, was a dead weight dragging him under. Every muscle in his face from his eyelids to his lips had turned into a grotesque blue mask. Making a sound required titanic effort. Forming a word, even a mumble, was nearly impossible.

  As best he could, Riley turned to where his friend was, but he only saw a limp body floating with its arms out like a crucifix, lilac face facing the stars, lifeless eyes to the sky.

  He wanted to call him, say his name like a magic word to give him his breath back. But he couldn’t.

  Riley opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out, not even a whisper.

  He wanted to cry, but even his tears were frozen.

  He was the last survivor of a deranged undertaking that had brought everyone who’d trusted him to a tragic end.

  They had all died because of him. Again. He deserved this end, without a doubt.

  He realized he no longer had the will to fight, since he had nothing to fight for. He also opened his arms and surrendered himself to the ocean surrounding him, urging his last breath to finally leave his body.

  He breathed in and blinked one last time, letting his eyes wander among the stars. They rested on Orion. As he accepted the warm embrace of death, he contemplated the perfect line of Alnitak, Alnilam, and Mintaka that formed the mythical belt. They were the same stars he’d watched the day he was wounded on Pingarrón Hill, where he should have died years ago.

  You bastard, he told God with his cruel sense of humor.

  God must have heard him, because he responded by calling his first name. It didn’t surprise him—it angered him.

  I’m coming, he said. Don’t rush me. Exhaling one last time, he let himself drift into the dark waters of unconsciousness.

  Riley didn’t see the fuzzy white spot of light floating in the calm, dark waters as it moved toward him, nor did he hear the purr of an outboard motor.

  The Assault

  Pingarrón Hill

  Madrid, Spain

  February 23, 1937

  It was less than a minute after Captain Scout had been gunned down by fascist bullets and Sergeant Riley had taken command. Everyone left standing in the first company of the Lincoln Battalion advanced behind him up the hill toward enemy gunfire.

  Under cover of darkness, they crept up like snakes, pressing so hard against the ground you’d think they were digging trenches. The enemy’s machine-gun fire hit only the ground most of the time, but sometimes the dull sound of impact was followed by a howl of pain, a cry for help, or, worst of all, silence.

  Riley knew some of his men were being hit, but they had already gone too far to turn back, which would be just as dangerous as moving forward. Also, the fascist trenches were close, and he had orders to carry out. No one’s gonna accuse me of being a coward, he thought, the taste of dirt in his mouth. I’ll take this fucking hill if it costs me my life.

  Barricaded behind the headless body of a dead legionnaire, Riley looked up toward the Nationalist positions and thought he saw white turbans and red caps behind the flashes from the rifles.

  “Moors,” he muttered. “Had to be fucking Moors.”

  He knew like any other soldier on the Republican side that the Moors of the rebel army were General Franco’s assault infantry—the toughest, most ruthless and experienced sons of bitches in the whole military, recruited in the mountains of Morocco. Their mere mention terrorized the militiamen. He also knew from experience that sooner or later someone in the battalion would see them and spread the word. Then some would hesitate, others would run, and, in the end, almost all of them would die in the panic.

  He had to do something, and fast.

  Without thinking too much—or he wouldn’t have done it—he turned toward his men and shouted over the sound of combat, “Fix bayonets! First Company, fix bayonets!”

  In case they’d be attacked with mortars and have to advance, he thought up a desperate plan, hoping the gathering darkness would provide cover from the Moors’ sharp aim.

  “Jack!” he screamed, turning back as he fit the bayonet on the mouth of his gun. “Can you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear, Sergeant
,” he replied, crouching a few feet behind him. “Me and the rest of the Republican army.”

  “Listen to me,” he said, pointing. “Take ten men to the left flank without them seeing you. The bulk of the company will cover you from the middle. At my signal attack with full force.”

  “And you?”

  “Do you have grenades?”

  “A couple.”

  “Give ’em to me.”

  Jack hesitated.

  “I’ll draw their attention from the right with the grenades and nonstop fire. Then attack from the left while everyone else advances up the middle,” Riley said. “By the time they realize what’s going on, we’ll have taken the hill.”

  “With all due respect, Sergeant, that’s a pathetic plan.”

  “Maybe. But on the plus side, if I fuck up I don’t have to listen to your bitching.”

  “Brilliant, Sergeant, you’re truly brilliant.”

  “Cut the crap and do what I say, we don’t have much time.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jack said with a snort. He scurried into the shadows.

  Riley pressed into the ground, praying he wouldn’t be wounded early. If he were, no one would be able to draw fire, and Jack’s offensive would be a bloodbath.

  Advancing inch by inch, crawling like a shadow, he found a depression in the ground and used it to conceal himself as he snuck up on the enemy flank. The farther he got from his men, the better chance they had of success. But before he’d even gotten to the point where he wanted to launch the diversionary attack from, the first mortars started to land where the bulk of the battalion was advancing in the open.

  He heard the first screams and knew time had run out. The enemy scouts, who may be fascist but weren’t blind, had discovered them. He couldn’t lose another second trying to surround the enemy and surprise them from the flank. If he didn’t launch his attack immediately, all his men would surely die.

  He crossed himself like his mom had taught him. I’ll take all the help I can get, he thought, putting aside his agnosticism. He pulled the pin of the first grenade, stood up, and threw it hard. Before it landed, he was throwing the second. When they exploded, he ran forward, howling like a madman, firing wildly. Though they couldn’t see him, the Moorish infantry immediately started firing through their embrasures in his direction.

  Captain Alexander M. Riley, International Brigade volunteer, born in Boston on March 25, 1902, son of a sailor from Maine and a Spanish ballerina, blinded by the harsh smoke of gunpowder that burned his eyes, with death ringing in his ears, rushed the nearest enemy trench.

  He heard nothing but his own scream reverberating in his chest.

  He felt nothing but blood pounding in his temples.

  He didn’t even see the flash of the bullet when it struck him and threw him backward like a doll.

  Time stopped.

  He faced the sky, arms out, immobile, stunned. An ugly hole by his heart, blood gushing, the ground around him turning red, Riley knew he was severely wounded. So this is what it’s like, he thought, gasping, astonished by the lack of pain. This is death.

  In the brief moment of clarity that precedes passing out, he saw the men who had followed him faithfully up the hill, fulfilling their orders, raiding the rebel trenches with their bayonets attached, roaring with hatred, fear, and rage. They fired as they went, using their guns as spears when they ran out of ammo. They ignored the deafening rattle of the machine guns, the flashes from the Mausers at point-blank range, the bodies of their comrades torn to pieces.

  Unable to move or say a word, Riley watched helplessly as one after another fell. Young, brave men. Dozens of his countrymen died before his eyes, dismembered by explosions and riddled with bullets, collapsing on the side of the wretched hill.

  Unable to stand the sight of the carnage he had caused, he turned his head and clenched his fists, trying to silence the screams and explosions and escape from the horror surrounding him.

  In his first few minutes in command, he’d managed to wipe out his entire company. He’d made a terrible, irreparable error, and all those who had trusted in him had paid with their lives.

  Overwhelmed by pain and guilt, Riley let himself sink into darkness as he prayed to a God he didn’t really believe in, begging to die right there.

  64

  Like a man returning from a long journey he wouldn’t remember, Riley awoke from the deep sleep of unconsciousness. He heard, or thought he heard, the murmur of voices, like wave-washed pebbles on a beach—meaningless but somehow comforting.

  Then he noticed a yellow glow behind his eyelids. Focusing on the effort, he managed to open his eyes enough for a blinding ray of light to come in. Blurred silhouettes descended on him like ghosts, whispering unintelligible sounds. He tried to ask something, but the effort to move his lips was too much and, seized suddenly by exhaustion, he lost consciousness again.

  Several hours passed.

  Riley was not at all aware of the passage of time, so it felt like only seconds had gone by when he woke up again.

  This time, he was able to open his eyes a tiny bit, and the shadows took on undefined forms, but he couldn’t focus his vision. He heard vaguely familiar voices that were incomprehensible murmurs but sounded concerned. He wanted to speak again, maybe ask what kind of crappy Hell he was in that couldn’t warm up the cold in his bones. But all he managed was to move his tongue a little and pass it over his cracked, salty lips, unable to get more than a whisper out of his sore throat.

  “Water . . .” he murmured, seized by a terrible thirst he hadn’t noticed till then.

  The ghosts were prepared to satisfy him, and a sip of sweet water made its way into his mouth. He wanted to lift his head to see if the angels were real, but it was too much effort, and, once again, he fainted.

  When he opened his eyes for the third time, he blinked hard until he was able to focus and see a clear blue sky. The ghosts didn’t appear this time, so he focused on his own body the way someone who survives an accident searches head to toe for injuries or lost limbs.

  He felt a sharp pain from his fingertips to the base of his neck, but it seemed like he had control of his extremities, which was a relief. At that point he accepted he wasn’t in Hell and had somehow come back to life and recovered his body. The question was how.

  Looking for an answer, and ignoring the protests from all his muscles, Riley lifted his head. The dazzling sun, protruding above the horizon, stunned his vision and brought tears to his eyes. He reflexively rubbed them, which made him realize he could move his arms too. Gathering all his strength, he braced himself with both hands and, with the moan of a corpse rising from its tomb, sat up.

  He was about to faint again, but he overcame the initial dizziness and refocused his eyes. He was naked and wrapped in blankets on the prow of an old launch he recognized immediately. Boxes of food and water were stacked in the center. Crowded on the opposite side with their backs to him were Julie, Marco, César, Carmen, and Elsa. Elsa was kneeling over Jack’s body, holding his shoulders as if saying something in his ear.

  Riley blinked several times to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. As he told himself it couldn’t be real, he felt an incredible wave of happiness spread from his chest to his throat and mouth. It bumped into his vocal cords and stumbled out of his mouth: “You’re alive.”

  Carmen gave him a long, warm kiss that nearly left him breathless. Then everyone besides Marco—who was sitting at the tiller—came over and covered him with hugs and affection. They smothered him with so much attention, giving him food and water, changing his bandages, and dressing him, he had to threaten them until they left him alone. They responded with condescending smiles as if he were a baby that didn’t want to be washed.

  As soon as he had enough strength, Riley straightened up a little more and glanced fearfully at Jack’s motionless form. “Is he . . . ?”

  “Unconscious,” Carmen said. “Like you were a few hours ago.”

  “We found you both in the water,”
César said, “with severe hypothermia.”

  “But . . . how?” Riley licked his cracked lips. “I saw the Pingarrón burn.”

  “We threw the launch before crashing, Capitaine,” Julie said with a wave as though to say it was no big deal. “It took us a while to find you because the water was full of debris, but we knew you’d be alive. We finally found you floating near the ship.”

  “I see . . .” Riley nodded. “But I don’t get how you were able to find us. We must have been three hundred miles from the meeting point, and I ordered you to head for the Azores.”

  At this suggestion of disobedience Julie just shrugged and smiled like she’d been scolded for a little prank.

  “We voted,” César said, “and we decided you might need our help.”

  “And since we knew the Deimos’s destination,” Julie said, “it was easy to trace the same path and follow it. When it stopped for repairs we saw the lights in the distance and . . . well, you know the rest.”

  Instead of the congratulations they expected, Riley gave them a reproachful look. “You voted—”

  “We did the right thing,” César interrupted him.

  “To put yourselves in unnecessary danger and disobey a direct order,” Riley finished.

  “Come on, man!” Carmen shouted, putting her hands on her hips. “You’re welcome!”

  Riley opened his mouth to reply, then remembered where he was and how he’d gotten there. He nodded gravely. “Anyway . . . thanks. But if something happened to you, I . . .”

  Carmen shook her head. “I don’t know what makes you think you, Jack, and Helmut can risk your lives while the rest of us hide under the bed.”

  “You know that’s not it.”

  “That’s how it seems,” Carmen said. “In the end everything worked out, and we saved you.”

  Riley frowned. “Not all of us, Carmen . . .”

  Elsa, who’d been holding Jack’s hand, walked up to Riley and looked at him with her wide green eyes. “What happened to Helmut?”