The Wrecking Crew

by Taylor Zajonc

  “I’m more worried about getting out of this harbor. But if we do, Mombasa is probably a better choice.”

  “Mombasa then.”

  “Any weapons to speak of?”

  “You’ll like this, frogman,” said Klea. Reaching up, she grimaced and slid open an aluminum wall panel. The panel resonated with a scraping sound as light spilled upon her creations.

  This is some serious Mad Max shit, thought Jonah. The young woman had spent just as much time creating weapons as she’d spent fixing the engine compartment and patching the hull. His eyes scanned over several singleshot harpoon guns made with welded metal, thick bands of surgical tubing and sharpened steel rebar shafts for bolts. Nasty stuff, the steel bars were usually used to reinforce concrete. Probably not as useful or accurate as his 9mm, but they’d certainly make a statement.

  She’d also assembled a set of floating mines. Klea had spent the most time on these, bringing the total to more than ten devices, mostly created from steel bottles of propane and other cooking fuels. Jonah could assume that once thrown, they’d explode when hit by one of the low, open-topped lightweight fiberglass hulls with powerful engines that were favored by pirates.

  Next were two small handmade radio transmitters. Maybe to set off previously hidden explosives? All he knew is that they made him nervous; open-frequency detonators were finicky. His mind flashed back to an old news story about a terrorist who exploded himself in his apartment after getting a spam text over the mobile phone he’d rigged to his bomb.

  Discount dick-enlargement pills available now, he thought. Boom.

  “What’s this for?” asked Jonah, pointing to a particularly mysterious duel-ended crossbow weapon. Rather than firing one bolt forward, it simultaneously fired one metal arrow to the right and one to the left at ninety-degree angles. The two bolts were linked by some type of ultra-lightweight, high-tensile fiber wire.

  “Prop fouler,” said Klea. “We use that at the mouth of the harbor, cut off the exit point. It’s neutrally buoyant, almost invisible when in the water. When they run over it, the high-strength line will get wound up into their propellers. At the very least, it’ll stop them dead in the water and force them to spend hours cutting it out of the propeller shaft. At best, they’ll burn out engines trying to chop their way through it.”

  “I’m game,” said Jonah, resigning himself. “Let’s do this.”

  It suddenly occurred to him that she didn’t even ask his name. This fact made him deeply concerned as to whether or not her plan included his survival.

  “Fatima should be done with the mooring lines,” said Klea as she and Jonah exited the engine room.

  Jonah and Klea froze, hearing the signs of a struggle, two sets of footsteps banging on the carbon fiber deck of the fantail, a loud voice yelling. Drawing his pistol, Jonah pushed Klea behind him, instinctually protecting her.

  Fatima stood on the fantail, still clutching the knife with white knuckles while a pirate pointed an ancient AK-47 rifle at her head.

  The pirate screamed at her in a language Jonah could not understand. All around them, the sleepy compound began to rouse. Lights flicked on in rusting corrugated tin shacks as humming generators struggled to keep up with the increased power load.

  Drop the knife, thought Jonah, wishing, hoping, willing Fatima to get smart and just drop the knife.

  The pirate screamed again, jabbing the rifle towards her aggressively.

  Jonah wanted the rifle.

  The diver stepped out of the hatchway onto the fantail, pistol already raised to eye level, drawing a bead on the pirate. He waited just long enough for the pirate to see him, to turn. But it was too late, and Jonah brought the butt of the pistol down on the pirate’s forehead.

  The pirate’s head lolled and his body collapsed. Shabby, heavily armed men flooded out from shacks around the harbor and crowded against the deck railing of the mothership, pointing and shouting. Jonah grabbed the assault rifle from the deck and slung the strap around his shoulder.

  “I—I didn’t finish!” said Fatima, pointing at the nearest mooring line, only half way cut.

  Jonah risked a glance around the harbor as he kicked the unconscious pirate’s body off the fantail. It fell into the filthy water with a loud splash.

  “You did good,” Jonah lied. “Fatima, go below decks. Go help Klea.”

  Klea must had heard the thump because the engines of the Horizon suddenly roared to life and surged forward, almost knocking Jonah off his feet and sending the kitchen knife dancing across the deck and into the ocean. One of the two mooring lines snapped instantly, but the second refused to budge. Shit, he had his dive knife at his side, but it was designed for fishing lines, not entire mooring ropes.

  The engines surged again, pulling at the mooring line. Jonah watched as the entire mooring post shifted, imperceptibly at first, then sharply as the pylon snapped. The Horizon leapt forward like a horse from the starting gates, gathering speed as it charged into the harbor. Shots rang out, disorganized, none impacting the ship.

  Jonah ran into the cockpit, which was now lit up like a Christmas tree. Klea had done her job keeping everything in working order. She sat in the command chair, feeding power to the throttle and steering directly for the harbor entrance. Two stone sentry towers looming before them.

  “You are straight-up ballsy,” said Jonah, putting a hand on the top of her chair, which was taller than she was. It felt like years since he’d talked to a woman, most of the ones he’d known before that had been ex-military or hardcore sat divers. Alexis didn’t count; she had too much of a sisterly vibe for Jonah.

  But Klea didn’t react. She stared forward, impassive, then started giving orders. “Engine room,” she said. “Get the two radio transmitters.”

  Jonah bolted out of the cockpit and into the engine room. Now lit up with a single halogen bulb, the transmitters were easy to spot. He grabbed both and ran back to the bridge.

  “We’re getting some heat spikes in the engine,” said Fatima, her voice thick with concern.

  “To be expected,” said Klea. “They’ll cool off once we’re underway. Just tell me if they start redlining.”

  The two towers loomed closer and closer. Dark shadows shifted as the guards inside scrambled to load their light machine guns and rocket-propelled grenades, muzzles resting against the bulwarks of the towers.

  “What’s the plan?” asked Jonah, fingering the triggers on the two radio transmitters. “Pirates don’t do warning shots.”

  “Wait,” said Klea. “We’re still out of their range.”

  Jonah knew this wasn’t true, but didn’t want to argue. Then the first tower opened up, sending a long stream of tracer bullets into the harbor water ahead of them. The pirate adjusted aim midfire, sending the stream dancing across their bow and into the port pontoon.

  “Still think we’re out of range?” exclaimed Jonah, ducking as the bullets narrowly missed the cockpit.

  “Now!” said Klea.

  Jonah jammed the triggers of both transmitters simultaneously. Nothing happened. The second guard tower opened up, hitting a patch of water dangerously close to the engine room. Jonah knew they’d find the sweet spot within seconds. He jammed the transmitters again, again nothing happened.

  “There it is,” said Klea, pointing to the base of the tower to the right.

  Artificial smoke billowed out of some hidden emitter, just wisps at first, but then massive, roiling billows that obscured the guard towers and the exit to the harbor.

  Behind them, the pirates assembled men and weapons, jumping into the fast skiffs tied to the motherships. Jonah wished he’d counted them before the action had started. Jesus, there were so many—ten? A dozen? Every one of them mounted with high-performance marine engines, every one of them a fast, lightweight hull more than capable of running down the Horizon. At least they weren’t shooting yet, unlike the guard towers.

  The Horizon plunged into the gathering cloud, reducing their visibility to mere inches.
Klea increased power, navigating by memory alone. Looking into her eyes, Jonah could tell she’d practiced this a hundred thousand times in her mind, driven by pure focus. He hoped her mind was half as sharp as she clearly thought it was.

  Jonah had been hoping for an explosion, a fiery detonation that would bring the guard towers tumbling down. He coughed, the acrid smoke entering his lungs. Even so, he was impressed. Any MIT freshman could make a decent smoke bomb. But it took a truly brilliant mind to make a radio-controlled smoke bomb trigger that would still work after being buried in mud for months, even years.

  Bullets whipped past, but with more uneven frequency due to the smoke. One impacted right next to Jonah’s feet, making him jump back as a spot in the deck exploded into splinters.

  “Engine room,” said Klea, wasting no words. “Prop fouler.”

  Jonah needed no more instruction. He ducked into the engine room and snatched the twin-crossbow prop fouler line. Exiting the compartment, he quickly took a position on the fantail, waiting for just the right moment.

  The machine gun fire stopped. Jonah guessed they were afraid of hitting their own men. That meant the skiffs would be in close pursuit.

  The Horizon slipped past the smaller guard tower. This was it, the narrowest section of the harbor entrance. Jonah snapped the catch from the twin crossbows. The two bolts disappeared in opposite directions, dragging the propfouling line behind them. He played out the last of the line with his hand and dropped the crossbow in the water.

  Tracer fire lit up from the closest guard tower, dancing across the starboard pontoon and the fantail. They’d seen the shadow of the Horizon through the cloud. Jonah dove for cover and fired back at the source with his 9mm, no idea if he’d even come close to hitting anyone.

  A buzzing whine sounded from behind the Horizon, the unmistakable engine note of an approaching skiff. The yacht burst through the far side of the cloud and into open ocean. A pirate skiff appeared close behind, but the prop fouler bit deep before the crew could react, bringing the boat to a sudden, jolting halt. A second pirate skiff impacted the first and flipped, dumping her crew into the ocean. Jonah watched as the injured pirates disappeared into the darkness behind them. He smiled. The pile of broken fiberglass would serve a much better barrier than a thin strand of high-tensile fiber. Another impact rang out as a third skiff slammed into the growing pileup at the narrow entrance to the harbor.

  Now in open water, Jonah desperately scanned the surface of the ocean for the Scorpion’s periscope. He waved wildly, hoping someone, anyone, was watching the unfolding scene.

  “Follow us!” he shouted to empty ocean.

  Looking at the shoreline, Jonah realized Klea had turned to the North, towards Oman. So much for taking his opinion into account. Apparently it was her production and he was just a bit character. But by the time Jonah reached the cockpit, he’d decided it was a non-issue.

  “Are we being chased?”

  “Not as far as I can see,” he said as he took a pair of binoculars off the console. “Big pileup at the mouth of the harbor. Nice work with the filament, I didn’t think that little trick would work.”

  Klea smirked, a victory over both the pirates and her surly visitor.

  Jonah returned to the fantail, binoculars in hand. He scanned the waters behind them. No Scorpion, not yet. Either the submarine hadn’t yet surfaced or the Horizon was a great deal faster than he’d given Klea credit for. He swiveled back towards the mouth of the harbor, watching as pirates surrounded the three crushed skiffs, trying to untangle wounded men from the shattered fiberglass hulls.

  Good, thought Jonah. If the whole pileup could suddenly burst into flames too, well, that would be super.

  His next thought was uh-oh. He stepped back into the cabin and tapped on the back of the captain’s chair until Klea turned around.

  “What?” she demanded.

  “We may have a problem,” he said, pressing the binoculars into her hands and leading her to the fantail.

  Back at the harbor, the pirates had worked out a solution to the invisible filament. The entrance to the harbor was still an unmitigated disaster, so they simply carried their skiffs over the jetty wall and splashed them into open water.

  And there were still a lot of boats, at least seven or eight.

  “I really hope your people can give us some backup,” said Klea.

  “And I hope you know this will turn into a straight-up fight,” said Jonah. “I’m going to need a body back here helping me.”

  “My place is at the helm. I’ll give you Fatima.”

  The pirates hung back behind the Horizon, keeping pace but waiting until the last of their skiffs made the journey over the jetty wall. They’d start gaining ground soon, and in full force.

  Still no Scorpion. Turning around would be suicidal. Jonah couldn’t fathom whether or not the Horizon could outrun the pirates or not, but his guess was that it would come down to combat.

  Jonah removed the clip from the assault rifle slung around his neck and looked at the bullets within. Ten, maybe eleven rounds. Not much. He really should have checked the body of the pirate he’d shot for more bullets before kicking him overboard. Too late now. The pistol wasn’t in much better shape for ammo.

  Fatima joined him on the deck, her arms overflowing with mines and extra rebar spears.

  “Easy there,” said Jonah, carefully removing the mines from her uncertain grip. “These … these you bring up one at a time, okay?”

  Fatima tried to mumble out an okay in return but couldn’t quite form the syllables.

  Jonah took a position in the rear hatchway. It was open to the fantail, but still provided him a little cover, not that it would matter much. The last of the pirates spilled over the jetty walls like army ants on the march. The metastasizing collection of pirate skiffs surging forward, gaining ground on the Horizon.

  Stashing the rebar spears in the wall, Jonah found a place for the mines at his feet. Fatima crouched behind him.

  “Fatima,” said Jonah. “Here’s what I’m going to need from you. I’m going to use the pistol and rifle as best as I can, but there’s going to come a time when I get down to the spear guns.”

  “Do you want me to use any of these weapons?”

  “Only if I’m hit. Whenever I shoot the spear gun, I’m going to hand it to you for reloading and you hand me one with a spear in it, okay?”

  “Understood.”

  Fatima prepared for her job by rearranging the spear guns. She brought the nearest one, loaded, right past Jonah’s face, the sharp metal spear almost brushing his cheek. Jonah sighed. Not a good sign.

  “If it has a pointy end,” he said, “do not aim it at me.”

  “Sorry,” Fatima replied.

  Two guns, two crossbows, ten mines and my swingin’ dick, thought Jonah. Some cloudy part of his brain remembered being in a worse position at some point in his life but couldn’t quite place it. Where the fuck was the Scorpion?

  The collection of ten pirate skiffs danced across the water, just out of firing range. Unlike the Conqueror, the Horizon was a marathoner, not a sprinter. One of the skiffs on the edge of the main pack broke ranks, charging forward. Shit, it was fast. Klea laid on more power but the pirates gained visible ground with every second. The skiff used the smooth wake behind the Horizon as drag strip, charging towards the fantail.

  Wait for it, thought Jonah.

  Close now, the pirates on the bow of the skiff stood up, preparing to leap onto the Horizon the moment the two vessels touched.

  Wait for it, he told himself.

  The pirate skiff reached the stern of the Horizon and the first pirate, Kalashnikov in hand, leapt over onto the fantail. Jonah caught him with two shots to his legs. He stumbled backwards, falling into the narrow gap between the yacht and the skiff, disappearing with his weapon into the foamy wake.

  The wounded man didn’t dissuade the other attackers. Jonah exposed his position, standing up to empty round after round into the crew
of the attacking skiff. A lucky shot—the last one in the magazine—caught the pilot in the shoulder, spinning him around and knocking the tiller of the skiff hard starboard. The skiff, now full of bloodied, bruised men, jerked to the left, impacting the starboard pontoon with enough force to rattle the entire yacht. The skiff flipped, spilling men and weaponry into the frothing sea. The head start hadn’t been nearly enough to outrun the pirates.

  The pirates didn’t stop for the swimming men. Instead, every single skiff advanced towards the Horizon simultaneously. Jonah heard the fierce crack of rifles firing as pirates on multiple skiffs opened up simultaneously, forcing him to take cover as bullets snapped past. Chunks of carbon fiber exploded from the hull.

  Ten rounds, thought Jonah as he snuck a glance towards a crouching Fatima.

  The professor was holding up, at least as far as he could tell. Her son would have reason to be proud—assuming they survived long enough to arrange a reunion.

  Jonah took aim with the assault rifle, carefully squeezing out one single shot at a time, rationing fire into the massing cluster of skiffs. It was too far away to tell if he actually did any damage or not, but the shots seemed to hold the skiff fleet back, even if for a few moments. His rifle clicked empty and useless. At least with the pistol he had two or three bullets left, the Kalashnikov held nothing.

  “Time for the mines,” Jonah called to Fatima. “I’m going to start chucking them over the back. I need you to hand them to me, one after another.”

  Fatima nodded and handed him the first. Jonah clicked on the crude switch and threw it, arcing it over the back of the fantail and into the wake. Fatima handed him a second, third, and fourth, each disappearing into the foamy seawater in turn.

  Shit. Nothing happened.

  Then in the far back of the pack, one of the skiffs erupted into blistering smoke and fire, tearing apart the thin fiberglass hull of the vessel and dumping her crew into the sea. At least one of the mines had struck true.

  No longer content to hang back and suffer whatever Jonah could shoot, launch, or throw their way, the pirates surged forward, firing, intent to end the engagement. All Jonah could do was duck as bullets whizzed overhead.