Blood Red Tide (Bad Times Book 2)

by Chuck Dixon

  “We only went back to watch them bury something,” Jimbo said. “As long as we don’t interact with anyone or leave something behind, it’s all good.”

  “No. No, it’s not. By the simple act of observation, we alter the reality we’re observing. It’s not even a theorem anymore, James.” Morris could not bring himself to call the man Jimbo. “It’s proven science. The Condensed Matter Physics Department at the Weizmann Institute in Israel confirmed it on a quantum particle level. Observation alters reality, and it’s not even about perception. It’s a real, physical change.”

  “Yeah, well...”

  “That’s why we have to make this the last trip,” Morris said. “Each manifestation in the past messes with the building blocks of reality on a level I can’t understand and don’t even want to think about. After we find Caroline and Dwayne and yank them the hell out of there, I’m going to sell the Tube for scrap and go back to teaching.”

  “First we find them,” Jimbo said, rising to leave. “Then you do what you have to do, Doc.”

  Each field opening pushed the next Tube manifestation forward by an indeterminate time. The opening Morris made following Jimbo’s return moved their window back, or forward, by at least twelve hours-time in The Then. Jimbo couldn’t get back to Dwayne and Caroline until the day after the message about the boat sighting was received. It could be longer. The Vestergaard Equation was subject to forces that Morris had not yet fully worked out. There were variables to time travel that he could not account for or anticipate. All he could do was dial in the field as close as the Chronus program would allow.

  Three days after Jimbo awoke from his long nap, the field was powered up and open for business.

  “You ready for this?” Jimbo said.

  “Fuck, no.” Boats grinned.

  Together they shoved the gear-laden inflatable down the steel rollers set in the floor of the platform. They leaped aboard as the craft entered the icy mist that enshrouded the Tube rings.

  The raft dropped hard into warm water. Jimbo tumbled across the decking to collide with a stack of equipment sacks. He fought down his gorge and pressed his eyes shut to fight off the crushing vertigo of the field effect. Boats clambered back on all fours to the twin motors and fired them up. He manned the tiller with a hand clapped over his mouth to keep breakfast down.

  “Tasted better the first time,” Boats said as he piloted them out of the low-hanging mist.

  The island was in sight, a black hump against the gloom of dusk as the sun sank behind it. The sky along the horizon to the west was streaked with orange clouds. Stars were already visible in the eastern sky.

  Jimbo broke out their weaponry. His own modified M4 for him and a Mossberg Mariner shotgun with extended magazine for Boats. He sat at the prow and leaped from the boat as soon as they reached the shallows of the beach that ran along the shore of the neck that connected the main island with the archipelago of rocky spires. They pulled the raft up onto the sand before running across the strip of sand with weapons extended. There were prints of sandals and bare feet everywhere on the beach.

  Jimbo held up a fist, and both men took a knee. Boats raised an eyebrow and pointed up to the promontory where the hide lay. Jimbo shook his head and removed a pair of night-vision binoculars from a pouch on his Molle vest.

  He scanned around them, starting at the rocks above and moving across the water to the north.

  “Shit,” Jimbo breathed.

  “What is it?” Boats whispered low. “A sail. Bearing north-northwest.”

  “Coming or going?”

  “Going, goddamn it,” Jimbo growled and stood up to watch the sail grow smaller against the sky.

  37

  Meet the Phoenicians

  The Lion of Ba’al, as they now knew the bireme was called, was far from the sight of land when Dwayne and Caroline were freed from their bonds the following day. Xinba’al, the man who had taken ownership of the ax from the man Dwayne shot, explained their situation to them through Praxus. They were free to move about the ship since there were many eyes to watch them and nowhere to escape to.

  “Are you okay?” Dwayne asked.

  “I’m not dealing with this well,” Caroline said. She cast her eyes at the deck.

  “Don’t let them have control.”

  “How do I do that, Dwayne? I’m scared. I’m stressed. I’m in the same situation I was six months ago. We’re prisoners.”

  “Don’t think of it that way. You give in to that and you become passive. Most people go that way, so they’re not noticed, so they stay out of trouble. We’re already in all the trouble we can handle. We can’t afford passivity.”

  “What’s the alternative?” She met his eyes.

  “Watch for opportunity. Be ready for the first chance we have to change our situation,” Dwayne said and brushed fingers through her hair.

  “What if we make the situation worse?”

  “That’s a possibility. But, we have to take the shot. The way I see it, any change is good.”

  They climbed up past the empty oar benches. The oars were pulled in shipboard, allowing little room for passage. They emerged into the sunlight to find most of the crewmen lounging on the main deck eating meals, playing with dice, or napping atop heaped cargo secured to the deck under hemp tarps stiff with tar.

  The ship had a company of almost two hundred men. There were one hundred and twenty places at the oars and just shy of sixty fighting men. Dwayne suspected that everyone on board was expected to fight when the time came. Almost all of them were taking the sun, and there was little open space on the center deck.

  An awning was rigged to provide shade for the skipper Ahinadab who napped on a cot amidships. A half-full bowl of wine rose and fell on his belly as he slept. The ancient seer, who they now knew was a Mycenean named Echephron, was cross-legged on the deck by the cot, sharing the captain’s shade. He mumbled in a sing-song voice and played with his ball of string.

  The sail was lowered and belled full-out; the lower spar was secured by taut lines to cleats along either wale to the stern. The sail was yellow-dyed hemp fortified with belts of leather to prevent rips. The Lion moved through the calm water with a pace swift enough to send a gentle ripple of foam over the ram.

  Caroline, with Praxus beside her, toured the boat with enthusiasm. The crew was mostly indifferent to the captives. They were no longer a mystery, just another pair of Romans. Who cared? But Dwayne caught a couple of surly mothers eye-fucking him. Maybe they were cousins or friends of the ones he waxed, back on the island. He’d have to watch his back and Caroline’s ass until they could get clear of this crowd. The captain believed they were valuable as slaves and probably told the crew to lay off of them. That didn’t mean one of them wouldn’t get a wild hair up his ass and take a shot.

  The garlic smell was no longer overwhelming all the other odors on the boat, Caroline noted. It was because their diet was laced with the stuff to the point where they were immune to how bad the others stank. They shared that stink. Now she could smell the sea and the tar and the clean scent of cedar.

  The entire ship was constructed of cedar from the famed forests of Lebanon. Stout and water-resistant, the dense wood made Phoenician craft superior to any other vessel on the ancient seas. The hull would be copper-bottomed, and the structure from the keel upward fortified with iron bands. These early oared vessels were unique for the single keel board running beneath them. The whole structure was further strengthened by a three-inch-thick length of twisted hemp that ran from stanchions mounted at stern and bow. It was thickly tarred, and taut as a piano wire. It prevented the keel from bowing in the wrong direction in rough seas.

  Caroline followed Praxus sternward past a brick oven set up on the deck. A crewman was heating irons in glowing coals within the oven. A trail of smoke drifted along in the ship’s wake. They followed the cloud of soot to the aft deck where the helmsman stood above them on the raised tiller deck. A skinny black Nubian sat dozing with his back agai
nst the aphlaston, a tall structure carved with relief images of fish and shells that rose from the stern and curved back over the deck like a scorpion’s tail. Put a t-shirt and khaki pants on the sleeping man, and he might have been a crewman aboard the Ocean Raj.

  In the shadow of the towering tail, the helmsman worked the iron-banded tiller set to starboard. He was tanned deep walnut, and at five feet nine inches, he had been the tallest man on the Lion until Dwayne showed up. The helmsman was all shoulders and arms from years of working the tiller. Like many of the crew, he was buck-naked. Caroline reminded herself neither to stare nor look away. The helmsman leaned now, elbows resting on the tiller handle, keeping one eye on the sun rising off the port bow.

  “His name is Yadaba’al,” Praxus told her, his Latin improving the more they spoke.

  “Is everyone on board named Ba’al?” she asked.

  “Ba’al is their god. Yadaba’al means ‘known to god.’ Most of them shorten the name.”

  “So, we call him Yada.”

  “Yes. That is so.”

  “Yada-yada,” she said and smiled. Praxus regarded her blankly.

  “Sorry. Roman joke,” she said.

  Crewmen were dipping bowls into an open barrel resting on the deck and bound to the mast with hemp lines. Amber liquid sloshed inside. A guy with a toothless grin elbowed Dwayne and offered him a wooden bowl. Dwayne took the bowl and smiled back, and the man’s eyes widened. The guy reached out tar-smeared fingers and stuck them in Dwayne’s mouth.

  Dwayne reared back, but the guy persisted. He separated Dwayne’s lips with his fingers and called to others nearby. Crewman stepped up and stared in open wonder, making ooh and ahh noises. None of them had all their teeth, and the ones they did have were stained dark. They’d never seen the marvels of modern dentistry and had probably never met anyone who had all their teeth. Some of Dwayne’s were implants from when he face-planted against the dash of a MRAP, propelled there by a mortar blast in Helmand Province. Still, his mouthful of pearly-whites was a miracle to these guys that they’d be talking about for the rest of their lives.

  The toothless guy nodded toward the barrel and Dwayne dipped the bowl in the contents. The men smiled at him, and Dwayne tipped the cup to his mouth. It was bitter and gritty and brackish and warm, but the aftertaste left no doubt.

  It was beer, the nastiest, skunkiest, funkiest beer he’d ever had. But when in Rome, you did as the Romans did, especially if you were pretending to be a Roman. He dipped in for seconds, and the guys around him nodded approval. He was one of the boys now.

  Caroline stood by the high prow and looked past the tarnished bronze head of the ferocious lion to see the water streaming up in geysers of foam between the ram’s extended claws.

  “I see no scars on the backs of the men,” Caroline said.

  “Scars?” Praxus said. He was seated precariously on a railing at ease, unmindful of the water gurgling past below him.

  “Scars from beatings. With whips. Some of these men are slaves, are they not?”

  “No one aboard this boat is a slave but me,” Praxus said matter-of-factly.

  “The men who row are free men?”

  “Of course. You would not have slaves at the oars. Rowing a ship is a skill years in the learning. A good oarsman is prized and well-rewarded. His share of any valuables taken by the crew is greater than the men who do their work with sword and spear. Do the Romans use slaves on their galleys? It is no wonder their ships are seen so seldom in these waters.”

  “I am not sure,” Caroline said. “I do not travel by sea very much.”

  “That explains your ignorance of all things nautical.” Praxus smirked. This kid was turning out to be an officious little prick.

  “At least I’m not a slave,” she retorted.

  “You are not? I thought you were slave to Maximus.”

  “I am not. I serve no one. We are equals and free.”

  “I see how he is with you. He is protective, but not as a brother would be to a younger sibling. You serve him in your own way.” Praxus leered now.

  Caroline blushed crimson. This little brat thought she was Dwayne’s boy toy. She wasn’t sure if she was more embarrassed for herself or for Dwayne. Sure, they were intimate, and it showed in their body language, she guessed. But she didn’t like this kid thinking what he was thinking, and she wasn’t sure why it bothered her.

  “There is no shame,” he said and touched her arm. “That is how I serve Echephron.”

  She feigned indifference to this remark, but turned her head from Praxus so he could not see her blanch at the visual of this boy having relations of that kind with that twisted old man.

  “I wish to rejoin Maximus,” Caroline said and made her way over the planks sternward. Praxus shrugged, then joined her.

  She found Dwayne trying to make sense of something Xin, the ax man, was saying to him. Crewmen stood about, looking amused at the exchange. Xin was losing his patience with this Roman’s lack of communication skills. A ripple of laughter spread among the watching men each time Dwayne shook his head at something Xin said.

  “Nope. Not following you, dude,” Dwayne said. The men guffawed and stamped the deck with their bare feet. This routine was going over bigger the madder Xin got. Dwayne smiled at the men near him and the laughter increased.

  Caroline shouldered through the amused crewmen to reach Dwayne. Praxus followed in her wake.

  “What is this about?” Caroline said.

  Xin glowered at her, then turned to Praxus to bark off a string of words punctuated with flying spittle.

  “Ahinadab has decided you are not demons and will spare your lives,” Praxus said.

  “We are grateful for that,” Caroline said.

  “You will be sold as slaves when we reach the next port. He expects to get a high price for you two, as unusual as you are.”

  “That is better than being killed, is it not?” Caroline said. They would have a chance to escape and find some way to communicate with her brother so the Rangers could find them. She wasn’t sure how this would be accomplished, but now that they would be spared, she and Dwayne would have the rest of this sea voyage to work that out.

  The blood drained from her face at Praxus’ next words.

  “What’s going on?” Dwayne asked her. The crew exploded in laughter.

  “They’re going to sell us as slaves,” she stammered, eyes locked on Xin’s cruel face.

  “Well, for now, that’s our best option in this shitty place, right?” Dwayne said and touched her arm to reassure her.

  “But first they’re going to castrate us.”

  38

  Boys Will Be Boys

  The crew was still howling with laughter at Dwayne’s reaction to this development when the Ranger slammed a fist into Xin’s face.

  All ninety-nine pounds of the first mate’s body left the deck and hurtled into the encircling crewmen, sending a half-dozen of them to the boards. One fell into the oar decks with a cry. Xin’s nose was crushed flat, and blood jetted from his nostrils and mouth. He lay unmoving on the deck as the others closed in with a roar.

  Hands gripped Caroline from all around as she tried to move to Dwayne’s side. Praxus was shoved away. Caroline yipped in surprise and then shouted in protest as the sweating men combined their weight to drive her down to the deck surface.

  Dwayne moved back toward the mast. He was bigger and stronger than any of the men aboard the Lion, but there were so many more of them. His only chance, and Caroline’s, was to keep all hands off him and make cutting off his balls too expensive an option for them to keep trying. And he had to do it before they got Caroline’s pants off and found out that nature beat them to it.

  Ranger training kicked in. The hours and hours spent with aikido and Krav Maga instructors gave him the instincts to overcome this scenario, for now.

  He backed up and slammed an elbow hard into the face of guy behind him, who crashed to the boards with a ruined face. Another hand reached f
or him, and he took hold of it and broke the owner’s arm. The little bastard stumbled back shrieking; a stick of white bone jutting through the torn flesh of his forearm.

  The rest of the ship’s company rushed forward to reach Dwayne. He saw the gleam of a sword blade in someone’s fist. More were pulling knives. Dwayne looked around for something, anything, to use as a weapon.

  Nothing.

  His back slammed into the mast and he ducked. The tip of a long-bladed sword sliced over his head close enough to feel the wind of its passage. It chopped a long splinter from the wood above his head. Dwayne kicked out and drove his foot hard into the swordsman's gut. The blade dropped to the deck. Dwayne grasped for the handle. A spear point jabbed into the boards near his hand and he backed off. The spearman jabbed the long point at his face. Dwayne retreated past the mast going sternward. More crewmen with spears joined the first and Dwayne was facing a hedge of shining blades pushing him farther and farther toward the tiller deck.

  A roaring voice rose above the angry chatter of the crew. Ahinadab, the skipper, buffeted crewmen aside and stood waving angrily at Dwayne and bellowing at the crew. The man was drunk, totally hammered, but he was still in charge. They lowered their spear points but kept their eyes locked on Dwayne. The captain spat and gestured and stood between the pissed off crew and the insolent Roman who’d been kicking their asses. Xin, recovered from the head strike enough to stand, was spraying blood as he barked defiance. Ahinadab put him back down with a clout to the side of the head.

  Dwayne knew he couldn’t rely on mercy here. He understood the gist of this exchange. Ahinadab was no friend. The captain was all commerce. Caroline and Dwayne were worth less at a slave market if they were injured, and nothing if they were dead, but apparently, eunuchs were all the rage right now.

  The crew nodded, and the spears were withdrawn with great reluctance. Dwayne saw wooden clubs being handed forward. Some were nasty looking deals with knobbed iron heads on them. He backed away and the crew stalked around the mast toward him, grinning like wolves. He turned his head at the sound of a call from behind him. The beefy helmsman was coming down the ladder off the tiller deck with a length of iron chain dangling from his fist.