“When the world was working a helluva lot better than this, I’d talk to the prosecutor and arrest you for manslaughter. You could have fired into the air, wounded him. You didn’t have to shoot him through the heart at twenty feet with a high-powered rifle. But the times being what they are—people desperate, doing desperate things—I’ll leave it at self-defense.”
Cricket had watched her father struggle with a terrible new world in the days that followed the EMP attack. He had made allowances for minor thefts and break-ins, and once cautioned a group of teenagers, who were constantly getting into trouble, that there was a good chance that in the next house they broke into they’d be blown away with no warning, even if they were running out the back door with their hands up.
Cricket thought of her sins in that area and knew that like Claubauf, she too had crossed lines that couldn’t be easily ignored by the law in more stable times. She thought of the teen who had murdered her uncle and that she slaughtered, the man she left for the coyotes.
With his thumb the sheriff rubbed a few pages back and silently read something he had written.
“Doctor Clawballs—”
“That’s Claubauf,” the doctor replied.
“This is a pretty damning statement about the Cline boy, this business about the minster, his wife, and nephew—a love triangle that exploded into torture and murder? There’s no proof, except hearsay.”
“Call it a lead, sheriff.” The doctor was smiling now. He was free. And Cricket could see that he enjoyed “stirring the pot,” a phrase her dad had used for some people who liked to cause trouble, then grab the popcorn, sit back, and watch the world burn.
The sheriff stood up. “I’ll call it hearsay.” He closed the notebook and eyed the doctor. “I don’t want to have to interview you again for some new trouble. Keep your nose clean.”
“I appreciate you keeping an open mind during these troubling, confusing times all of us find ourselves in.”
“An open mind is all I got these days. Can’t let it close and take a rest for even five seconds.”
Cricket had been wrong about the sheriff. He was a law officer down to his tippy-toes. She rose and accompanied him to his two-door ’69 Mercury Cougar. “It’s the only car I could get my hands on. Passenger door is frozen shut, so I don’t mind putting a prisoner in the front seat. He’s not going anywhere except over me.”
Claubauf watched the sheriff leave and turned to Cricket and Fritz.
“I’m going back to my apartment in town.” Neither one tried to talk him out of it. He added, “You know, I’m needed here.”
“We can always use bodies,” Fritz said. “But we prefer they come with a heart.”
Cricket said, “I’m not forgetting all the good you’ve done for us, Doctor Claubauf. But it’s better that you go for now.”
Forrest came running, which was a feat in itself. Out of breath, he said, “Call from Command… just five minutes ago. Some crazies on the Ohio… headed downriver in a sternwheeler. They’re shooting at everything along the banks.”
28
A Ride on the Island Girl
Lawrence had taken the jeep to locate the rogue sternwheeler and communicated via two-way radio with Fritz, who passed on the information to Cricket at the controls of the Mustang. Cricket had asked Fritz to pick up lithium batteries at Wright Patterson on his next visit. They were down to one extra battery and only a few hours remaining on the radio pair.
“He said we can’t miss it. The biggest sternwheeler he’s ever seen—all white, red stacks, two paddles. Called the Island Girl.
“Never thought I’d be strafing Mark Twain’s boat.”
The river off to her right, Cricket climbed through seven thousand feet and leveled off at eight. The extra altitude was needed in case the partiers had serious armament. Though even a lucky shot at a lower altitude from a .22 rifle could take down the Mustang.
“We’ll see it soon,” Fritz said. “But we’ll wait for the kill order from Lawrence. There may be civilians on that boat.”
“Any interest in taking out just the paddles?”
“Thinking about it.”
They took two strong bumps in a row, the result of a cold front that had collided with warmer temperatures in the Ohio Valley.
“It’ll be bumpy no matter what altitude we’re at today,” Fritz said. “Hey, I see it, past the bend to the south.”
“Got it, Captain.”
Cricket banked north and decided to take a closer look at the back end of the old-timey ship being piloted by modern-day pirates.
She said, “Could be a bunch from a neighborhood bar that thought it was a good idea to sail down the Ohio—roast weenies and shoot at traffic signs?”
Fritz didn’t immediately respond. He was talking to Lawrence. Cricket took a moment to enjoy all the sensations of flying the Mustang. The long fuselage in front of her housed the magnificent Rolls-Royce engine. The strong, streamlined plane’s name couldn’t have fit better. The responsive controls and the abundance of power made turns instantaneous, stick and rudder, as natural as two hands on a guitar.
“Lawrence is hanging back about a half mile and slowing. He confirms they’re wreaking havoc on the locals on both sides of the river. Hold on—”
While she waited to hear more, she watched the boat veering close to the southern shore. It gleamed in the sunlight, and both paddles were making waterfalls behind the Island Girl.
Fritz returned to the intercom. “Lawrence is checking on a truck driver who crashed and may have been shot.”
Before replying, Cricket let a few moments click by, listening to the Mustang’s deep strum.
“Lower?”
“Not yet. Lawrence is gonna use the overturned truck for cover. He can get close enough and take a look with his binoculars. See what firepower they have onboard.”
Actually, they were Sister Marie’s birdwatching binoculars. Like today, that day on July Fourth had been full of hard decisions. Cricket had killed two men that day—the first two people she had ever shot. Sister Marie had been watching with her binoculars, and Cricket had been looking through her scope on the Remington. Death that day sickened Cricket. Though needed, it was a terrible moment, especially being witness to a young man’s suffering many long minutes before dying.
Cricket started to mention that the ship was now aiming for the Ohio side, Lawrence’s side, when Fritz answered the two-way radio. He was soon back. All business.
“The driver’s dead. His head nearly obliterated. Probably .50-caliber.”
“They act drunk.”
“Who knows? Maybe some are. But they’re deadly. Let’s give Lawrence a few minutes to take out some of these hotshots. Head south a few miles. I want to see what lies in the path of these clowns. They’re making good speed going with the current. Probably twenty knots.”
The world below was nearly all trees. She glimpsed homes, a small town, and train tracks. She paralleled the river well ahead of the pirate boat and spotted a broad section where dozens of boats were anchored on the West Virginia shore.
“Maybe they’re headed there for lunch?” Cricket said.
“Drop to a thousand feet for a better look.”
The Mustang came screaming down, yet she smoothly leveled off without being pressed into her seat by strong G-forces.
“My God, Cricket, probably hundreds of people there. A community, living on their boats. Maybe traveling between Cincy and Pittsburgh, a whole new economy?”
They had seen a number of boats on the Ohio for weeks. This was a refuge. A base of operations. A new home for a lot of folks.
Cricket circled directly overhead, looking straight down at the marina. “Intentional or not, this is where the bastards are headed. A real treasure—bodies and booty.”
“At their current speed, with zigzagging, I estimate an ETA of 1430 hours. We’ve got thirty minutes before they ruin a lot of lives.”
Again, Fritz left for the radio. Cricket banked in the o
pposite direction and could see people waving. They’d also be waving and cheering the arrival of the Island Girl.
The entire marina still looked well maintained, individual boats clean and pretty. Civilization alive and well for another half hour.
Fritz returned, his voice grim.
“The lower decks probably have fifty men, some women, boozing, screwing, and shooting randomly at the shore. The upper deck has the real nasty characters. The leaders. Lawrence counted five. Two at the helm and three with sniper rifles, and a guy walking around balancing his shoulder-held rocket.”
Nothing was said after that, initially. Both pilots were thinking.
“Any children?” Cricket asked.
“None he could see. And if any are citizens being held against their will, well, it’s not evident.”
“Even if we shoot out the paddle wheels, they’ll get close enough to go on foot the rest of the way.”
“Lawrence could go straight there and warn them.”
“He’s on it. He just has to get past the bastards first. I told him to call once he’s clear of the pirates.”
“Thank God he’s got your jeep and not my Barracuda.”
“So, here’s the plan. We utterly destroy them in two passes. On the first, we obliterate the top deck with the sniper rifles and machine guns, and the captain and first mate driving and navigating. We’ll come in from the west.”
“The sun behind us and in their eyes.”
“Yeah. The second pass, you fly into the sun and shoot out the paddle wheels and ignite the fuel.”
It had been two months since she’d depressed the trigger on the control stick and the guns had flamed. Fritz had a few hours more of practice-firing the six Brownings that converged on target like an iron street sweeper. But Cricket was the better shot, demonstrating her skills in midsummer by taking out a stolen fuel truck that bikers were trying to protect.
“Cricket, pick up a two-thirty heading. Five miles out, turn to the reciprocal to greet our guests.”
“Fritz, left side!”
An enormous plume of fire and smoke rose several hundred feet high on the West Virginia side. Fuel storage? They weren’t sure.
“Dear God, they used a rocket.” Fritz was now talking to Lawrence. Cricket stayed at five thousand feet and would lose the altitude on her strafing run.
Fritz sped through his words. “Lawrence took advantage of our attack. He’s a quarter mile ahead, where the next bend starts, before the marina. Hopefully he’ll finish off any of the heavy shooters still standing, looking downriver for us.”
Cricket didn’t answer. She was in her turning dive. She knew that not everyone on board was the sworn enemy of civilization, but there was no other recourse. The bandits enjoyed killing and mayhem and would be adding to their score before nightfall if the slick monkey wrench called the Mustang wasn’t thrown into works.
She pushed past three hundred miles per hour and would accept some decrease in speed as she leveled off slightly for the kill. The pirates would have three, four seconds, enough time to aim and shoot. A .50-caliber slug would pulverize the canopy, ending their mission. Bullets slamming into the engine or the liquid cooling system would cripple them.
“Under twenty seconds,” Fritz said. “Five degrees left.”
She saw the paddleboat at her eleven o’clock position. The sun brightened the vessel against the river, and the ship’s noble-looking form could have arrived only seconds ago from the shores of the nineteenth century. Cricket knew she was attacking an American icon of progress and beauty and possibly innocent people. She focused on their earlier discussion to shoot low and then rake the bow and lower decks quickly before destroying the upper deck. This would be accomplished within mere seconds.
Over the Island Girl, she’d increase speed and stay low, planning to be out of sight of any remaining shooters in mere seconds. Her stomach rolled to the outside of the turn as if she were skidding the airplane with too much rudder in the bank. But her coordination was perfect; only her nerves suffered, as she knew there were no halfway measures to protect any innocents and destroy the creeps on board.
A second explosion occurred on land. Near the first. The boys must really be enjoying themselves. She maneuvered the plane smoothly and the warhorse screamed over the river.
Fritz’s instructions were now one and two words. She depressed the trigger early, and water shot up in front of the ship. She nosed lower, then higher, an arc of terrible gunfire. Her rounds made wood and glass explode from water level to the upper deck, a nasty uppercut breaking bone and teeth.
Cricket saw only a few bodies hitting the deck and no one aiming or waving weaponry.
“Stay low. Good job, sweetie.” Fritz’s compliment and reminder came dreamlike. Before her was the beauty of the world, the winding river of Lewis and Clark, the few settlements of a brittle civilization, and the great swath of forest on the horizon. The moment of danger only made the world more beautiful and precious as she heard him call out to climb straight ahead. She rocketed through the next several thousand feet at almost three hundred miles per hour.
She was five miles upriver when she swept the Mustang through a 180-degree turn to return to the paddleboat.
“Concentrate your firepower on the paddle wheel and lower section of the stern. Let’s light this baby up. They enjoy fireworks.”
Cricket didn’t say anything. She came around at three thousand and started her dive over the north side of the river, the boat in sight.
At a mile out and five hundred feet above the river, Fritz yelled, “Rocket!” She saw a stream of smoke and dove toward the water. The rocket zoomed overhead and she started firing, again hitting the water before targeting the wheel and back end of the ship. The explosion briefly blinded her, and this time she climbed immediately.
Fritz was calling out commands, and she heard, “Level off and turn south.”
The world hadn’t changed. It was still a peaceful, late-fall afternoon as she gently exercised her neck and head and took several deep breaths once level at eight thousand.
“Cricket, stay level and overfly the boat.”
Fritz was back on the radio with Lawrence. He came back with the news.
“Lawrence took out one scumbag after your first run. The misfit was on the top deck, positioning himself to take you on, coming from the north. He knew. Bad news is the boat hasn’t sunk and Lawrence doesn’t think it will. A lot of the clowns jumped into the water. The hull’s intact and it’s drifting toward the marina. He’s estimating it’ll get there within an hour. He’s on his way to warn the folks there.”
“I can make another pass. See if I can finish it off.”
“You’d have to come from either the north or south and rip it up the entire length to ensure that.” Fritz was then quiet before saying, “That’s not going to work. You’re going to be spraying the other bank and very likely hitting innocent people.”
“How about hitting the bow again?”
“Let’s do it.”
Cricket still expected some lone crazy crawling around with a gun as she came back around, screaming above the water, spraying the front end of the ship. When they circled back, it remained on fire, and Lawrence indicated there were no signs of its sinking anytime soon.
They had enough fuel, so they scouted the shore and surrounding towns. Fritz took over the controls from the rear seat and flew up and down the river, making a low pass over the marina, rocking the P-51’s wings. Lawrence kept in communication and had talked to one of the leaders of the marina, who agreed to have everyone evacuate inland for the next several hours, keeping a force of two dozen men to eliminate any pirates who made it to dry land.
While waiting for the burning paddleboat to make it to the marina, Fritz and Cricket discussed the savages aboard the Island Girl.
“Were they the prisoners?” Cricket asked.
“Don’t know.”
“This world is really hour-by-hour. And within the next hour, we�
��ll know if the life of this little community will survive.”
“True.” Fritz paralleled the burning boat. It was abandoned and broken and still on fire.
When the paddleboat approached the marina, the current led it toward the center of the anchored crafts. Fritz and Cricket knew that dozens were on hand to handle the burning ship as best they could with fire hoses, pumps, and portable generators. From the air they could see that the ship had set two boats on fire and a third had exploded.
29
Apples and Science
At the farm they heard from Lawrence that most of the boats had been saved, a dozen pirates vanquished, and the parents of one family lost in a ferocious gun battle that guaranteed the survival of their four children. Cricket learned that it would be weeks before the marina gained any semblance of normalcy and a feeling of security with the help of daily patrols up and down the river. The paddleboat’s burnt hulk would be towed downriver and anchored along the West Virginia side, dismantled over the coming months. Lawrence was still covering more details of the many skirmishes when the kitchen door flew open and the boys dragged their verbal fight into Hank’s house.
“Caleb doesn’t believe in God anymore,” Ethan announced, going for an apple from a bowl on the counter. “He says that a real God could make the world a better place instead of letting people suffer so much.”
Caleb stood quiet, looking from adult to adult, seeking a supporter, avoiding Sister Marie’s gaze and his dad’s. He openly stared at Cricket. It was a warm afternoon, and his mom, Captain Fritz, and the girls were on the stone patio setting the table for dinner and steaming vegetables over the outdoor fireplace.
Caleb made his case to Cricket. “Lee Ann and Lily’s parents are gone forever. That’s not fair. Cricket, you rescued them, but God let them both die.”
Cricket looked to Sister, who answered.
“People make their own choices, Caleb. We have free will. A person chooses between good and evil.”
American Blackout (Book 2): Slaves Beneath The Stars Page 11
