by CJ Williams
Gus thrust his bayonet into the ribs of a pirate, pushing the man back against the gunwale. The bandit grasped futilely at the long blade, a look of utter surprise on his face. Gus tried to pull the bayonet out but it was stuck, so he pulled the trigger. The discharge was enough to kick the musket free and force the pirate backward over the rail.
The fight closed hand-to-hand, with fists, elbows, and teeth. Someone from behind knocked Gus to the deck. He looked up to see one of the pirates lining up a gun for a point-blank shot.
Kyoko came flying out of nowhere with her katana sword, and a slicing blow sent the man to the deck screaming in pain. She spun out of Gus’s sight, swinging her blade left and right.
One of the pirates tripped and landed beside Gus, his expression ugly with rage and fear. He tried to level a pistol at Gus’s face, but Gus grabbed the barrel, forcing it away. The two men fought flat on the deck, growls coming from their throats.
Another body fell on top of them. It was Martinez, his nose broken and spurting blood. He landed on the pirate’s wrist, sending the pistol skittering out of reach, then he was up again, leaving Gus and his opponent struggling to their feet, still grappling, each man trying to find an advantage.
*.*.*.*
Bullock ordered his pilot to back away once his men had boarded the galleon. It was not his intent to engage in hand-to-hand combat, and besides, that first volley of muskets had sent one ball dangerously close to his face. It hit the wall behind him and ricocheted down the corridor.
All noise stopped when his yacht backed away from the galleon’s atmosphere. Outside the hatchway, the scene was eerily quiet. It was like a silent movie of fifty men fighting each other, packed together on the tiny deck, too close even to use a pistol without hitting a partner.
Expressions of pain punctuated the scene as one side or the other connected with a fist or blade. Now that the battle was hand-to-hand, his men were bound to win. Most of them had cut their teeth in knife fights from an early age.
Two men tumbled overboard, dead or dying; both his. Another fell screaming, also his. That damned female samurai was wielding a huge sword like Ali Baba, swinging it viciously and connecting over and over. Bullock’s momentary confidence started to fade. Fewer people were fighting on the deck now, but he couldn’t tell which side was winning. It was like watching a ballet. The men embraced in a deadly struggle and whipped around too fast to keep track of who had the upper hand.
He wanted to fire into the crowd, but all he could see were men’s backs. There was no way to tell who was who, let alone what side was winning. He needed a place of advantage.
His gaze trailed to the stern. If he could get on the poop deck, it would be perfect. From there it was a clear view down to the waist. With his handgun, it’d be easy to pick off the American sailors. Where had they all come from, anyway? The question appeared in his mind and then vanished. There were more immediate considerations.
“Swing around to the back,” Bullock told his pilot. “And keep us out of sight.”
Bullock fed a fresh magazine into his assault rifle and another into his pistol. He shoved the handgun into his belt and slung the rifle over his shoulder. The yacht pulled up against the stern, and he jumped across, grabbing the rail. He got a leg over the side and pulled himself onto the deck. There were no options now; he had to take control quickly.
He crept toward the front railing of the poop deck. Below on the waist, the melee was in full swing. As far as he could tell it was still an even fight. That was about to change. He spotted the old man that had caused all the trouble and unslung his assault rifle.
*.*.*.*
Hannah stood on the quarterdeck, using her musket like a club in a game of Whac-A-Mole. Every time one of the pirates came within reach, she brained him.
One of the yachts moved toward the empty quarterdeck with two guys in the hatchway. Peavey threw her a loaded musket with a bayonet on the end. She emptied her weapon into the chest of the first pirate as he jumped from the yacht’s cargo bay.
The second guy caught the tip of her bayonet, but his momentum carried them both to the deck. The man screamed in agony, pawing at the blade and spraying blood all over Hannah’s face.
She shrieked in sudden terror and scrambled away on all fours, any thought of fighting gone from her mind.
Her hands touched the steps leading to the poop deck, and she bounded up, colliding with Bullock at the top. More from panic than conscious thought, Hannah got a grip on the barrel of his assault rifle. It went off, sending an indiscriminate burst of fire down onto the main deck. Bullock lost his grip, and the weapon clattered down the steps.
He pulled the pistol from his waistband and clobbered her with the butt. Before she could escape, he wrapped an arm around her neck and dragged her toward the front railing. He raised his gun and fired two shots into the air.
The big magnum thundered above the struggle, cracking through the battle like a hammer. Instantly, he had everyone’s attention. He jammed the pistol barrel hard up under her jaw, right below her ear. Hannah squirmed weakly, but all her strength was gone.
“Where’s the old man?” Bullock screamed, scanning the bloody deck below. “Where is he?”
“Here,” Gus said, stepping away from the pirate he had just been strangling. “Here I am. Let her go.”
He banged the barrel against Hannah’s skull in reply. “I’m the one giving orders now,” he said. “You have…” His voice trailed off when he spotted Kyoko standing by the shrouds of the mainmast. She still held that big curved sword, dripping with blood.
“You!” he shouted. “You’re the one who…” He sputtered in anger and pointed the magnum at her. By the time he pulled the trigger, she had already moved, scrambling up the ratlines. Bullock fired again, but Kyoko jumped from the shrouds like she was trying to leap overboard into space.
Hannah screamed in terror as Kyoko flew through the air, but the sword swept through the mizzenmast’s forestay where it connected to the mainmast just below the yard. The blade cut it cleanly in half, and Kyoko grabbed the end with her free hand. She sailed out over the ship’s rail beyond the strakes. Bullock fired once more, and a red bloom erupted from Kyoko’s torso before she disappeared out of sight. Her cry of pain cut off abruptly as she passed beyond the ship’s atmospheric bubble.
A movement from Gus caught Bullock’s attention. He swung his gun back toward Gus but Hannah struggled enough to jostle his aim, and the round hit the man next to Gus, who fell to the deck.
“I said stop!” Bullock shouted, tightening his stranglehold on Hannah. “I told you, this is—”
Kyoko came swinging up over the stern of the ship in a high arc like a tetherball, still gripping the katana sword. “Hannah!” she screamed. “Duck!”
Bullock jerked around in surprise and Hannah pulled free and dropped flat. He brought his gun up to aim at Kyoko and pulled the trigger just as she let go of the rope. She landed on the poop deck, swinging the sword in a powerful slashing blow against Bullock’s bare neck.
His head bounced off the side rail and spun off into space. The body collapsed on top of Hannah, gushing blood everywhere. She gave out one long, bloodcurdling scream of terror and passed out.
Everyone on the deck, both the pirates and the military crew, stood frozen in stunned silence.
Kyoko landed in a crouch and slowly rose to her to her feet, her face in agony. Blood welled from a gash in her side. “Damn it!” she cried out, putting her hand against the wound. “Why does it have to be the same spot?” She straightened quickly and moved toward the steps to the main deck, casually swinging the blade in a figure-eight. At the top of the steps, she assumed the stance of a home-run hitter in a batter’s box. “Next!” she cried.
Her threat acted as a catalyst.
“I’m outta here!” one of the pirates shouted. He ran for the port rail and jumped into an open cargo bay. That started a rout. To a man, every one of the assailants able to walk left the deck and the yacht
s pulled away. The wounded colleagues who were left behind hurled curses at their backs but dropped their weapons in surrender.
*.*.*.*
Gus rose unsteadily to his feet. He didn’t have a scratch on him. “Take care of the wounded,” he told Jackson, and trudged toward the stairs to the poop deck. “I’ll check on the girls.”
Military training kicked in, and each crewman tended the nearest injury that was worse than his own. Other than Gus, no one had come through the battle without some type of mark—painful cuts and bruises and too many bullet wounds.
Doc Finch began a triage, directing the sailors to stop the bleeding on this guy or move that guy to the infirmary. Chief Rodgers took over as her assistant and ordered those who were ambulatory to help.
Alyssa confirmed she had made contact with the navy through Lifeboat Nineteen’s comm system. Help was on the way.
Jackson led a detail in damage repair, and Hawkins took over straightening out the gun deck. He and Peavey personally reloaded the cannons and the muskets.
Chief Rodgers followed Gus’s early example of dealing with criminals and ordered the bodies of dead pirates to be unceremoniously dumped overboard like so much flotsam. Gus felt a twinge about that, but by the time he learned of it, it was too late. At least Rogers didn’t do the same with the wounded. Esther zip-tied them to the rail at the back of the poop deck.
Goddard, Kovis, and Wilson were the most critically injured, all with severe bullet wounds. Doc Finch tended to them in her infirmary, wishing out loud that she had the equipment of a real ER.
Within twenty minutes, two navy starfighters showed up and established a protective patrol around Alyssa. Shortly thereafter, a military cruiser arrived, the USS Decatur, very similar to the New Orleans. Medical and security teams boarded, and the wounded were transferred to the Decatur’s more advanced hospital facilities. The injured pirates were also moved, albeit heavily weighed down with thick manacles.
A senior navy officer, Commander Tillman, put in an appearance. He knew who Grandpa Gus was and was extraordinarily abject in his manner.
“Mr. Cartwright,” he said, “I apologize deeply that you and your crew were ambushed this way in our own solar system. If there is anything we can do to help…”
Gus sat on a pile of rope coiled on the main deck. He was too tired to make it up to his cabin. “Thank you, Commander. I think your guys are doing all that’s necessary. If you can hang around for a bit longer, that would be great. Do you have a psychiatrist aboard?”
“Yes, sir, we do.” The commander seemed uncertain. “Are you feeling a little…”
“Not for me,” Gus said. “Miss Hannah Schubert is a survivor of Hanover stadium. She has a few issues with blood, and as you can see, there is a lot of it on the deck.”
Understanding dawned in the officer’s expression. “Ah. Got it. Doctor Cindy Graves will be right over.”
“Thanks. Please ask her to contact Lieutenant Sanders. Esther can show the doc to Hannah’s room.”
Kyoko arrived and nudged the navy commander aside. Her exposed skin was covered with tiny red dots as though she had a severe case of the measles. New stitches had been put in her side, but she had thus far refused to transfer to the navy vessel. “That’s enough, officer,” she said, and knelt next to Gus. “Grandfather. Let’s get you to your cabin.”
“What’s with your bumps?” he asked. “Was that…?”
Kyoko nodded. “Vacuum exposure. I figured a few seconds wouldn’t be fatal. One of the doctors said the splotches will go away in a few days but they want to put me in a decompression chamber for twenty-four hours. I said okay, but first, you should call Grandmother.”
Gus nodded. “Good idea.” He didn’t feel like he had done enough for the recovery but was past exhausted. “By the way, who is the patron saint of the military? Was it Atticus or Sun Tsu?”
Kyoko gave him an incredulous look and shook her head. “Grandfather, there are over a dozen, but neither of those names is on the list. If you want to pray for help, you need to go to church.”
Gus sighed. He was still grateful, no matter who had lent a hand to his pitiful crew. He changed the subject. “You got any of that island cocoa left? I could do with one of your coffees.”
“It so happens I do,” Kyoko said, and helped Gus to his feet. “I’ll make some while you call home. Then I’ll be gone for a day, so don’t go anywhere.”
“That’s one thing I can promise. I need you at the helm.”
18 – The Challenge
“Those who live by the sea can hardly form a single thought of which the sea would not be part.”
(Hermann Broch, “The Spell”)
Carol Cartwright was surprised by Russell Kline’s news. They were sitting in a coffee shop near Studio 37. Four days had elapsed since she got Gus’s call after the attack that he was okay.
“The network suspended you?” Carol said. “But it’s your name on the backdrop.”
“They sure did,” Russell said with a woeful expression. “Without pay.”
“Why?”
“The brass took a dim view of a beheading on breakfast TV.”
Carol nodded. “I can see their point, but you couldn’t help that.”
“They don’t see it that way.”
“It was pretty gruesome,” Carol admitted. “But Kyoko acted in self-defense. Who knew she was such a swordswoman?”
Russell shrugged philosophically. “According to the brass, everyone who goes to the movies. Anyway, it could be worse. Kent Blankenship, he’s the newsroom director, got fired outright. The bosses said he should have killed the feed as soon as it turned violent.”
“Well, that’s certainly true. I almost had a heart attack. Gus called me after everything was over, but I was a nervous wreck until then. I’ll be glad when they get back.”
“Everyone up there okay?” Russell asked with a nod toward the heavens.
“I wouldn’t put it that way,” Carol replied. “But they are certainly in recovery mode. The navy is providing them with an escort until they reach the station.”
“I’d say they were a little late on that. You going up to Armstrong Station for their arrival?”
“Oh, yes. It’s scheduled for noon the day after tomorrow, and I will certainly be there.”
*.*.*.*
Gus eyed the station’s space tugs as they approached Alyssa. “Those seem a bit unnecessary,” he said to Lieutenant Jackson. The two stood on the quarterdeck.
“I would agree,” Lieutenant Jackson replied. “Those are normally for cruiser-sized vessels. We’re barely over a hundred feet. Perhaps they’re just sightseeing.”
“Could be,” Gus acknowledged. “Either that or trying to pad the bill. Maybe we should show off a little. Alyssa, ask Mr. Hawkins to open all gun ports.”
Seconds later the seven starboard side covers rotated upward, banging against the hull in a series of satisfactory reverberations. Almost immediately the tugs began to back away. Esther mumbled something about not being provocative but otherwise kept silent.
Moments later, an official-looking shuttle departed one of the many launch bays of Armstrong Station. The word Pilot was emblazoned on its side.
Alyssa said, “Captain Gus, the station pilot requests permission to come aboard.”
“By all means,” Gus said. “Let him pull alongside.”
Gus stepped down to the waist to greet the man as he came over the gunwale. He had the same awed expression of everyone else who boarded the galleon in space. It took a few minutes to get used to standing in the open without the comfort of bulkheads, decks, and overheads. He maneuvered around the gray equipment boxes stacked on the deck, already full of military supplies ready to be returned to a quartermaster somewhere in the station’s behemoth bureaucracy.
“Captain Gus?” he inquired.
“That’s me. Welcome aboard. This is Lieutenant Jackson and Lieutenant Sanders.”
“I’m Douglas Pointer,” the man introduced hi
mself, and shook hands all around. “Welcome to Armstrong Station. My compliments to you and your crew. Your legal team has arranged for a commercial liner berth for your arrival. Will that be acceptable?”
“That would be fine, Mr. Pointer,” Gus said. “We won’t be here that long. We’re turning the vessel over to the Smithsonian. Mrs. Cartwright tells me their people are already here to take possession.”
“Indeed. They are coordinating with Armstrong Control at this time.” Pointer pulled a sheaf of papers from his valise. “First, I need your signature on these documents.”
“What are they?”
“Just confirmation of insurance and an invoice for support services. It also includes an interior map of Armstrong Station.”
Esther rolled her eyes at the inanity.
Gus scanned the documents quickly. He drew a line through the item marked Ship Assist and Towing and adjusted the total. “I never thought of insurance,” he admitted. “Should I sign it?”
Pointer cleared his throat. “Ahem. I believe Mrs. Cartwright has that taken care of.”
“Good enough,” Gus said, and signed the papers.
“Thank you,” Pointer said. “For now, I am required to take control of this vessel for docking.”
“What do you think, Jackson?” he said. “Should we quiz him about appropriate sail management?” From habit, Gus looked up to examine the sails and rigging. To his practiced eye, there were a lot of recent patches. Even so, for their grand arrival, Gus had decided to come in with full canvas on display. With the star sail stowed, even full canvas offered only a fraction of the star drive’s power, but they made the ship look impressive.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Pointer replied, following Gus’s gaze.
“Whatever you say, Captain,” Jackson said in a diplomatic tone.
Gus shrugged. “I guess we should be polite and observe all the formalities.”
