In a terrifyingly calm voice, she ordered, “Let them come close, then use the grenades.”
“Yes, Queen.”
Grabbing the rifle lying at her feet, she added, “We have to kill them all!”
She watched the orange dinghy vanishing into the cloud of thick black smoke.
In a near whisper, she said, “Boiúna, I swear you will live again. And I will be the instrument of your revenge.”
#
Micah closed in on the fast-moving tree, desperately trying to get Catalina’s attention. He saw a piranha launch itself from the water. Catalina batted it aside before it could latch on.
That’s when he saw Faye cowering behind her.
Heart pounding, Micah drew closer, pushing the dinghy’s outboard motor to the breaking point.
The current battered the tree, rocking it back and forth until it rolled over, submerging the two women.
Micah screamed, “No!”
Seconds later, the tree righted itself. The women still clung on, but now piranhas were lodged in the branches around them—one mere inches from Faye. Catalina grabbed the branch, bent it back, and let go. The fish catapulted past Micah into the river. Keeping one hand on the tiller, he waved maniacally, finally catching her attention.
She shouted, “Micah!”
The tree hit an eddy, the altered current spiraling the back end around clockwise. Micah cut right as the tree spun a hundred and eighty degrees. Then it cleared the eddy, maintaining a straight path long enough for him to draw alongside. Catalina squirmed closer to the dinghy, one arm locked around Faye’s waist.
Micah reached out with his free hand, grabbing a branch. The dinghy bounced up and down, his extended arm tethering it to the tree. He clung on, every muscle throbbing, yelling, “Now!”
With no other option, Catalina lobbed Faye like a basketball, dropping her into the dinghy.
The terrified little girl yelled, “Daddy,” and crawled over, throwing her arms around him.
The embrace nearly made him lose his grip. “Not now, honey!”
The boat rocked violently, nearly yanking his arm from the socket. Now it felt like they were dragging an anchor. Glancing back, he saw a piranha clamped on to the back of the inflatable, its teeth shredding the rear baffle. One third of the dinghy was deflated, its buoyancy decreasing every second. The fish hung on with pit bull tenacity.
Micah shouted, “Now! Now!”
Catalina leapt off the tree, her upper body landing in the partially deflated boat. The impact almost sank them. Micah released the branch and grabbed her arm while steering away from the tree.
Catalina crawled into the dinghy, snatched up an oar and hammered at the fish. It refused to let go, gnawing its way toward the next intact baffle.
She yelled, “Fuck it,” drew the pistol and shot it through the eye. The fish jumped in a spastic aerial ballet before landing next to Micah. He jammed his knee onto its gills, pinning it down.
Micah shouted, “Bail, bail!”
“With what?”
The tree floated past them. Micah steered the partially submerged dinghy toward the riverbank, keeping an eye peeled for any caiman lurking there. With cupped hands, Catalina and Faye bailed the rising water. The outboard motor sputtered under the strain of what was becoming more bathtub than boat.
“Come on, come on,” Micah muttered, eyeing the piranha swimming past them.
The dinghy struck the mud bank just as the waterlogged outboard motor sputtered and died.
Micah yelled, “Out, out! Check for caimans!”
Catalina was already moving, pulling Faye to shore with one hand, clutching the Glock in the other.
Micah hopped out and dragged the deflated dinghy up the riverbank. Once there he sank down to the muddy ground, physically and emotionally spent. Faye ran over, throwing her arms around his neck. This time he didn’t let her go.
She kissed him, tears in her eyes. “Daddy, you came back!”
“You bet I did. Did ya miss me?” Faye just buried her face in his chest. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He lay back, holding her tight.
Catalina knelt down next to them, her body caked in mud, and said, “She never lost faith in you, not even for a second.”
“What about you?”
Catalina laughed and said, “Eh, I figured you’d pop up eventually,” then sank down beside them, laughing.
The three lay there, reveling in the sheer joy of being alive.
Chapter Seventeen
Santos took command of the attack from his tender boat, radioing orders to the other boats. The queen’s armada was coming at them fast, but their assault lacked cohesion. It was more of a race than an attack. A pair of twenty-foot go-fast boats were in the lead, hellbent on grabbing the brass ring—Batista’s yacht.
Santos radioed, “Remember, these are pirates. They’re used to attacking fishing boats and tourists. So follow orders and maintain discipline.”
Coming up behind the lead go-fasts was the queen’s forty-foot trawler, flanked by small boats. Their undisciplined attack was a blessing.
Santos radioed his vessels. “Get three tender boats up front now. Focus all their fire on the lead go-fast. I want our remaining gunboat to hold back with the fast trawler and catch the second one.”
Three tender boats descended on the pirates’ lead go-fast, unleashing the concentrated firepower of six AK-47s. The attacking tender boats shredded the lead go-fast, killing the pilot. The go-fast boat slewed sideways, losing speed. A second wave of gunfire struck the engines, leaving it belching fire and black smoke.
The other pirate go-fast should have held its position, supporting its comrade. But instead, it just raced on, eager for glory.
Santos ordered, “Tender boats break off, you killed them, so don’t waste another shot. We’ve got a trawler and more go-fasts inbound. Focus everything on the left go-fast; then circle around for the trawler.” He knew the pirates would eventually wise up but was determined to inflict as much damage as possible in the meantime.
The queen’s lead go-fast ran straight into the gunboat’s twin front machine guns. A hail of bullets shredded its hull below the waterline, leaving it bobbing in the current. The gunboat pressed forward, its rear turret pummeling the go-fast with machine gun fire as it passed. The go-fast’s engine exploded, throwing men into the river. The gunboat kept moving, heading for the oncoming trawler.
Santos shouted, “Where are my other tender boats?”
“We’re coming up behind you.”
Santos saw a skyrocket launch from the queen’s flagship. It burst in a halo of yellow sparks. The queen’s boats saw the signal and instantly slowed down, forming into a group.
Santos muttered, “They finally wised up.”
#
Despite all the terrors and hardships she’d endured, Faye still managed to give Micah a nine-year-old’s breathless recounting of their exploits, including their scuba escape.
Micah looked over at Catalina and said, “Nice work. Thank you doesn’t even begin to—”
She waved him off. “No sweat, it’s all in a day’s work for your friendly neighborhood CIA.” She pointed at the fish lying in the dinghy. “A whole army of those douche-nozzles attacked the boat.”
Micah grabbed a stick and prodded the fish until he was satisfied it was dead.
He said, “It’s a piranha but ten times the size of a normal one.”
Peering down at it, Faye said, “Megapiranha.”
“What?’
“I saw it on Animal Planet. They’re giant piranhas that lived like a couple million years ago.”
Catalina said, “That was just a scary movie, honey,” before remembering their reality was more terrifying than any film.
Micah poked at the fish. “But what she’s saying makes sense. The ants, the snake, now these. It’s like the ancient world is coming back for the sole purpose of killing us. You said the piranhas attacked people en masse?”
“Yeah, it was a bl
oodbath.”
“Despite what you see in movies, piranhas only do that if they’re starving. But there’s plenty enough to eat around here, even for these monsters.” He rooted through the dinghy’s survival kit. “Perfect. The queen really knew how to pack.”
In addition to the usual emergency items there were small binoculars, a folding knife and even a pint bottle of infused cachaca. He tossed two pouches of survival water and some nutrition bars to Catalina, who doled some out to Faye. He stuffed the liquor into his pocket.
A deafening roar echoed through the trees above them. Catalina drew the pistol and dropped down into a combat stance, shouting, “What the fuck was that?”
A second roar followed. It sounded like a cross between a lion and a belching giant.
Scanning the trees, Micah said, “Relax. Faye, can you tell us what that was?”
Faye listened to another roar and said, “It’s howler monkeys, right?”
“Good ear. There are some up in the trees, warning the troupe that we’re trespassing.”
Faye stared up at the trees and pointed to a male howler monkey the size of a German shepherd squatting above them. “There he is. He’s a male, warning the rest of the troupe.”
The monkey eyed her and let out another roar.
Putting the pistol away, Catalina said, “Thank you, midget Jane Goodall.”
Faye said, “She studied chimps, not monkeys,” and then waved to the big male.
Micah said, “Don’t go near them, honey. Howlers are ornery and carry yellow fever.”
Machine gun fire chattered in the distance, followed by muffled explosions.
Micah grabbed the binoculars and gestured to the riverbank. “What say we grab a seat and catch the last half of the battle?”
They all sat on the riverbank, feasting on nutrition bars. The current had carried them at least a kilometer downriver, but they could still see the battle raging in the distance. Micah watched for a minute then passed the binoculars to Catalina.
Small boats bore down on each other, machine guns blazing like World War Two fighter planes. Several vessels were burning.
Catalina said, “I know this sounds bad, but I hope whoever that is kills Batista.” Then she passed the binoculars back to Micah.
Watching the chaos, he said, “I’m hoping for a total massacre on both sides. Trust me; they’re all something out of a nightmare.”
#
Santos watched the queen’s armada break off their ragged attack, converging into a rough formation.
He muttered, “This just got harder,” then keyed his radio. “Enemy approaching in formation. I want our gunboat and fast trawler to hold at the center, all tender boats break left and right and slash them from both sides.”
A chorus of radio voices copied his transmission.
Santos knew exactly what had to be done, but he didn’t need to be in the middle of it. He turned his boat, making for the rear as his tender boats advanced.
The queen’s armada came at them in rough v-formation, the trawler in front, protecting her flagship. The armada was moving at a steady eighteen knots—a rapid approach but slow enough to maintain formation.
Santos’s boats cut left and right, while the gunboat’s machine guns focused on the center. The tactic forced the pirates to protect themselves on every side, while Santos’s boats focused their firepower on the passing targets.
To the left, a line of tender boats came at the pirates in a straight line, unleashing a barrage of AK-47 fire into the passing vessels. By the time his third tender boat struck, two of the queen’s go-fasts were burning. Two pirates on a go-fast started hurling grenades at the third tender boat. The tender boat’s gunner cut both men down, but not before one grenade struck home. The tender boat exploded on the water.
In the center, Batista’s gunboat and the fast trawler reduced their engines until they were treading water. They were letting the enemy come to them.
Santos’s attack plan was being duplicated on the right, but this time the pirates were ready. The first tender boats passed the queen’s trawler, their guns blazing. Pirates stood up on the trawler’s deck lobbing hand grenades, destroying one passing tender boat.
One of the pirates pulled the pin on his grenade, only to have the rusted spoon break off. An instant later, the antique grenade exploded in his hand, killing him and three other men. A second loose grenade rolled across the deck and exploded. A ruptured fuel can burst into flames, engulfing the deck in fire. The burning trawler pressed on, absorbing gunfire intended for the queen’s flagship running behind it.
A grenade landed on another tender boat, sending it veering wildly. It struck one of the pirate’s go-fast boats head-on, capsizing both. Men from both sides spilled into the water, drew knives and continued the fight—until the piranha struck. The fish tore into the survivors. Only one man managed to make it onto the hull of the overturned go-fast.
The gunboat’s twin front machine guns let loose with a steady barrage of fire into the queen’s oncoming trawler. The rear gunners used the opportunity to fire mortar rounds. It was a long shot that any round would hit a target but worth trying. The first round landed in the river just in front of the queen’s flagship and sank without detonating. Four more followed with equally dismal results. A fifth mortar round missed the queen’s flagship but struck a go-fast boat just starboard. The round detonated, reducing the twenty-five-foot go-fast boat to timber. Flying debris struck a second boat, capsizing it. Men floundered in the water, quickly becoming chum for the Megapiranhas.
The queen’s burning trawler kept coming until it suddenly exploded in a spectacular ball of fire. A go-fast running alongside it was showered in burning debris, killing all aboard.
The queen’s flagship cut around the sinking trawler, powering straight into one of Santos’s tender boats, capsizing it. There were at least six pirates crouched on the flagship’s bow, firing at the gunboat.
To the left, one of Batista’s tender boats was circling a go-fast in a furious close quarters firefight.
Santos knew he’d suffered huge losses but was pleased that the queen’s flagship was heading straight for the gunboat. It didn’t stand a chance against the gunboat’s armored turrets and dual machine guns.
The gunboat continued firing at the queen’s oncoming flagship—then suddenly their machine guns fell silent.
Santos muttered, “Idiots,” knowing they’d overheated the belt-fed machine guns, fouling the barrels.
The queen’s flagship roared past the impotent gunboat. Without slowing, it came alongside Batista’s fast trawler, almost scraping the side. Pirates on the flagship hurled at least a dozen grenades onto the trawler’s deck, reducing it to a flaming wreck. The flagship sped on.
The gunboat spun around to pursue, but with its front machine guns out of commission it was nearly useless.
Santos cursed to himself. Now nothing stood between the queen’s flagship and Batista’s yacht. The naval battle had turned into a duel.
Chapter Eighteen
Batista listened to Santos’s voice crackling over the walkie talkie. “We couldn’t get ’em all. Her flagship’s coming straight for you.”
Batista peered out from the fly bridge, bullets pinging off its armor plating, and replied, “I figured that out already.” Then he switched to the yacht’s intercom, announcing, “Cut engines, and hold position. If she wants me, she can come and get me.” He turned to the two crewmen behind him.
One was huddled on the deck, staring up at Batista with terror in his eyes. The other lay sprawled across the deck next to him, most of his skull shot away.
Batista shouted, “If you don’t want to join him, open up those cases!”
The terrified crewman flipped open the first case, unveiling a new Russian-made Bazalt RPG-32 reusable grenade launcher; a model vastly superior to the crude RPGs the Russians pawned off on third-world countries. The second case contained a pair of rocket grenades, each color coded to indicate its purpose.
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Grabbing the grenade launcher, Batista said, “Hand me the white-striped round.”
The crewman obeyed, gently cradling the RPG round.
Batista shouted, “Quickly! It’s a Russian grenade, not a Fabergé egg!”
After loading the round, Batista peered through the RPG’s digital sights. The queen’s flagship was seven hundred yards out, coming straight for them, guns blazing.
He muttered, “Perfect.”
The RPG-32 had an advanced digital rangefinder but lacked automated target acquisition, meaning it was only as accurate as the man firing it, and Batista was very good. But he knew that hitting a moving vessel from another boat was damn near impossible and only an amateur would waste munitions trying—he had a different tactic in mind.
Batista said, “Stand by with that red-striped round, I’ll need to reload fast.” He took aim, counting down the rangefinder’s readings, his finger hovering over the trigger. “Seven hundred yards… Six fifty, six twenty-five. Six ten.”
Batista fired. The rocket propelled round soared out, veering slightly to the target’s port side. It was well within effective range.
By design, RPG rounds self-detonate upon reaching their maximum range of seven hundred yards; a safety feature easily altered by trimming the fuse. This thermobaric, anti-combatant round was set to self-detonate at six hundred yards.
The crewman held the red-striped round at the ready, until a stray bullet tore into his skull.
Batista shouted, “Second round now,” then noticed the partially decapitated crewman at his feet. “I’ll get it myself.”
#
The queen stood at the bow, rifle at her shoulder, emptying a magazine at Batista’s yacht. Slapping in a fresh magazine, she screamed, “Faster! I want that bastard to suffer!”
All her hatred for Batista came boiling to the surface—flooding her mind with memories of the whippings, the beatings, and other acts so dark she refused to acknowledge them. The only tragedy was that she wouldn’t have time to torture Batista—finding the American and avenging Boiúna had to take priority. Batista would die quickly, but the American’s suffering would linger.
Primeval Waters Page 15
