by Chuck Dixon
The boards were slick with gore, blood running from the scuppers to leave a wake of pink foam. The tide aboard the deck of the Mughal carrack was turning. The Northmen could sense it in the air, see it in the eyes of their opponents. Dwayne joined them in the rush that carried them up the ladders to the raised deck and the ship’s masters. A Mughal chief in bright silks and a helmet crested in gold stood with his back against the ship’s wheel and called orders. A mixed band of painted savages and broad-shouldered swordsmen, his immortals, formed a ring around him for what both sides knew would be the final onslaught.
Dwayne rushed forward to take his place in the fight only to feel an arm strike him across the chest. Samuel was there in front of him, blocking him as others rushed roaring past. Those strange green eyes bored into his as he was pressed back. Samuel pushed him to the taffrail, hands to Dwayne’s shoulders.
“You have to live!” Samuel shouted to be heard over the din.
“We’re winning this! I can’t back down now!” Dwayne tried to shake out of the other man’s grip. No go. Samuel held him firmly against the rail.
“This crew is doomed.” Samuel nodded back toward the bow. From their vantage point, they could see the second Mughal vessel was joined hull to hull to the Norse ship, and a mob of warriors was coming over the gunwale in a wave.
Dwayne looked at the fight around the wheel. All he saw was slaughter. Men locked in a death struggle and neither side clearly winning. Samuel was right. This last melee was a forlorn effort. With the arrival of the second ship, they were outnumbered. Their ship was no longer sea-worthy. Even if, by some miracle and the grace of the gods, the Northmen came out on top, they could never escape. The guns of the Mughal armada would blast them to pieces long before they made open water.
He felt Samuel’s grip release him.
“You have to go,” the other man said. Samuel slid his own bracelet over Dwayne’s hand, and it snapped it closed.
“I can’t leave you here to die,” Dwayne said.
“We’ll meet again. Remember?” One of Samuel’s rare smiles.
“Remember? You mean—you can’t know that for sure.”
“I do know. For sure. As sure as I know that you can’t be allowed to die here, Dwayne Roenbach.” Samuel pressed on the bracelet and was gone.
All was gone. The smoke and fury of combat. The shrieks of dying men. The thunder of guns.
And Dwayne was falling. Above him was a black sky sprayed with stars. Below him were the dark waters of the Mississippi Delta.
47
Fiesta
Anchoring off Puerto Vallarta cost them every pre-1976 piece of currency they had along with some other loot from the Raj’s stores. Mo balked at them handing over some cases of canned goods marked with expiration dates four decades in the future. He was overridden by the Rangers. The bribes were paid at 1976 prices, so it was a bargain.
The Mexican customs officials might have been curious at the unusual ship, and its even stranger crew of gabachos and Africans. If they were, they kept it to themselves. They certainly didn’t bother to find out that the Ocean Raj was on no country’s registry and would not be for another twelve years. Their supply of any kind of light craft was exhausted, so they had to rely on hiring a launch to take them to shore. And they had business ashore.
Boats leaned on the starboard rail, watching a thirty-foot tender motoring toward them from the rows of cruise ships docked along the shoreline. The alabaster towers of hotels rose to the south where the broad white sugar beaches stretched for miles. The hills above were dotted with white buildings and red rooftops. Morris stood by him, enjoying the warm sun and the view.
“You know what’s out there?” Boats asked. He nodded ashore.
“All I see is Puerto Vallarta.”
“Nineteen seventies Puerto Vallarta, Mo.”
“Yeah. The Bicentennial. Jimmy Carter. And Star Wars won’t be out till next year.”
Boats turned to him in astonishment.
“You’re a hopeless pogue, bro. That’s Partytown south of the border. Pre-AIDs pussy as far as the eye can see. If it’s Spring Break, I may never come back.”
Morris turned red as a radish.
“Remember, we have business. We have to get back to the platform.”
“And all the time in the world to do it.” The SEAL slapped Morris on the shoulder, teeth showing through his ginger bush.
It was a week before the materials they needed were delivered from a foundry near Mexico City. Stacks of carbon steel sheeting cut to specific lengths and widths and drilled through to allow them to be bolted to a framework. Wooden cases of large gauge bolts made from the same steel arrived as well. In addition, the Raj was resupplied with food, fresh water, diesel, and all the other supplies the company of men needed for a trip back to sea.
To pay for it all required exchanging some of their onboard gold stores for pesos. The rates were pure robbery everywhere they went, but the prices, except for the diesel, were low in comparison to what they were used to.
The Rangers and crew took some leave as well, enjoying the anonymity that being out of place in time offered. Even Morris had a good time though he wouldn’t answer any questions about the LSU coed named Linda he hooked up with no matter how much he was teased. His only reply was a shy smile that never failed to give the Rangers a charge.
Even Taan and his guards were allowed ashore. There was nowhere for them to run in a world where they hadn’t been born yet. And none of them were anxious to get back to a China still run by the Gang of Four. Every one of them returned aboard the freighter when promised.
On their last day in port, a search party had to go ashore to find the Iranians. The first cab driver they asked knew just where the three maricon bars were in town. They managed to tear Parviz and Quebat away from a cantina packed with nuestros amigos with the promise that they could come back “sometime.”
The Raj set out on the evening tide, stores full and decks stacked with the new steel plating.
The shed was waiting right where they’d anchored it, broadcasting an encrypted location signal via satellite four times a day.
“Is this one of those ‘so crazy it’ll work’ ideas?” Jimbo said. The Raj was moving easily through the open end of the Dex-Tan 11 on a glass surface sea.
“There’s no reason I can see that it won’t.” Morris looked up at the rectangle of sky visible above them, framed by the high sheet walls.
“Sounds like one of those Russian dolls to me,” Jimbo said. “The Tube inside the Raj, the Raj inside the box, the box inside another box.”
“You have to think outside the box. Literally,” Morris said. “It’s really about the field. We produce more of a jolt than we actually need each time we open the Tube field. There’s no reason we can’t double or even triple the encompassing field area. The new sheeting of alloy will allow that.”
“Enough to include this whole dock?”
“Yes.”
“And the whole damned thing just goes ‘whoosh,’ and we’re gone?”
“Without a trace.”
“Yes. No sign we’ve ever been there.”
“So, we never have to return to where we’ve been before. There’s no chokepoint. No re-entry point where an ambush or some other nasty surprise will be waiting for us.”
“That is the plan, Jimbo. Total portability. Go where and when we like and far from the reach of Sir Neal Harnesh.”
“When do we leave?” A broad grin creased the Pima’s face.
48
Bayou Special
The night sky was limned in a coral glow as William James Crory drove east on State One along Grand Isle Beach. He was always the first one in to work, well before dawn. Made sense since the place, Billy-Jim’s, was named for him. Well, his dad, actually. Him being Billy Jim Junior.
Had to get there to meet the food truck that came each morning. He’d check the order while his cousin Mark, if he was on time and sober, put the cold goods in the m
eat locker. Then they’d both work to get breakfast ready. Billy Jim getting the grits started and Mark peeling and chopping potatoes for home fries. Half the island showed up to start the day at Billy-Jim’s, a shack of a place that served the best breakfast platter in the delta. That’s what the faded metal sign that hung out front claimed, anyway. The place was a madhouse during fishing season and a shabby little goldmine.
As he hooked the Silverado into a left off empty and dark Highway One onto Englebach, Billy Jim could see a figure seated on the sidewalk under the awning by the front door stoop. Looked like a big man. Looking for strong coffee to sober up, most likely.
He pulled onto the gravel behind the clapboard building that sat sagging on pilings off a lot big enough for maybe ten cars to park. The reefer truck from Bayshore Foods was waiting, the driver seated in the cab with the AC on full and playing with a phone. Mark was waiting in his usual place, seated on the edge of the narrow back porch with a Kool smoldering in one hand and a mug of black coffee steaming in the other. “Let’s get to it,” Billy Jim said, banging the flat of his hand of the cab door of the reefer as he’d done every morning for the last sixteen years.
They checked, unloaded, and stowed the order of eggs, bacon, ham steaks, andouille sausages, onions, tomatoes, potatoes, milk, cream, orange juice, lard, and bread. Billy paid the driver in cash for the order, and the day got started for real.
Grits started, biscuit dough going. The grill fired up and seasoned. Three huge urns of coffee brewing. Mark chopped onions and taters. Eggs, sausage, bacon, and steaks loaded into the cooler drawer by the grill. The drawer would be refilled three or more times before breakfast ended at eleven. A horn beeped, and Billy Jim wiped his hands on his apron to go out and greet the bakery truck. Trays of crullers, donuts, and bear claws were handed in for Mark to slide into a display case behind the counter that ran the length of the ten-table dining area.
“Some guy’s out front,” Mark said upon returning to the kitchen.
“Saw him when I’s pullin’ in,” Billy Jim said as he punched biscuits from a layer of dough spread on a floured tabletop.
“Looks kind of strange.”
“Yeah?”
“Like he’s wearing a costume.”
“Well, he’s late for Mardi Gras and a hundred miles lost.” Billy Jim checked the man out for himself when he unlocked the front door and stepped into the dawn light to set out the hand-painted sandwich sign that announced BREAKFAST 7 ’TIL 11 on both sides to traffic moving past on Gulfview.
The guy did indeed look strange. Bearded and hair longish. He wore leather breeches and some kind of woolen tunic belted at the waist with a broad tooled belt. His feet were bare, and he was soaking wet. Big man, like Billy Jim noticed earlier. Broad shoulders and the hands of someone who worked for a living. The featureless silver band about his wrist seemed incongruous with the rest of his clothes.
The man was standing when Billy Jim came back from setting out the sign.
“That bacon I smell?” he said. The man’s eyelids were swollen. He had a fresh scar on his forehead that had scabbed over.
“And ham steaks and sausage.”
“You interested in a trade?”
“What’choo got?” Everything about this guy’s appearance should have set off alarm bells in Billy Jim’s head. But something about his bearing, something in his eyes, told Billy Jim the guy was all right despite his weird outfit.
The guy unhooked a dagger from his belt and held it out to Billy Jim. A pretty thing with a real bone scabbard trimmed in bronze. An Arkansas toothpick with a spade-shaped blade over eight inches long. It was engraved with some kind of runic symbols. The handle, inlaid and capped with silver, felt like real ivory under his fingers.
“That worth a full breakfast and the use of your phone?” the big man said.
“Sure. Done deal.”
“The call will be long distance.”
“Still a good deal.” Billy Jim was already thinking of where to put it on one of the walls of the dining room where he hung vintage fishing gear and framed photos of celebrities who’d stopped by for breakfast. The dagger would look just fine next to his autographed picture of Don Johnson.
“I appreciate it.”
“That bracelet’s nice, too.”
“Trust me. You don’t want this bracelet.”
“Cursed?”
“Something like that.”
“Good enough. You need to get out of those clothes. You mind wearing kitchen whites? Had a fella ’bout your size used to work for me.”
“You might just be my new best friend,” the big man said.
“Call me Billy Jim.” Billy Jim stuck out his hand and the other man took it.
“Russ Baumeister,” Dwayne Roenbach lied.
49
Biggest Little City in the World
They had a back-up, fail-safe, drop-dead plan they put in place in another time and place.
It was in the form of a collection of off-the-rack flip phones with an account paid five years in advance. This latest burner was installed in a safe deposit box in Reno under the name Mrs. Bonita Chamberlain. The only way it could fail was if the carrier went out of business.
Caroline retrieved the phone from the poky little branch office of Nevada Trust and checked into the Dunes Motor Lodge under the name Cynthia Petrie. Her son was introduced as “Charlie,” which always made the little boy giggle for some reason. She paid a week ahead and spent her days watching the boy in the kiddie pool and reading a thick paperback novel she never seemed to make much progress in. She turned away the clumsy pick-up attempts from male guests by saying that she was “waiting for a call.” She would nod to the practically antique burner resting on the chaise by her.
She stepped from the shower to an unfamiliar buzzing sound. Exiting the bathroom, she found Stephen still asleep in the middle of their shared double bed. Pre-dawn light peeped through a narrow gap in the drapes.
The buzz was from the flip phone. She’d never heard it ring before. With trembling hands, she picked it up, opened it, and tabbed the answer key.
“Hello?”
“Caroline?”
“Oh, baby. Where the hell have you been?”
The End
Levon Cade: The Complete Series Omnibus
FROM BEST-SELLING AUTHOR, CHUCK DIXON, COMES THE LEVON CADE SERIES – A CAN’T-PUT-IT-DOWN VIGILANTE JUSTICE SERIES.
Levon Cade left his profession behind to work construction. He just wants to live an anonymous life and be a good dad to his daughter. But when a local girl vanishes, he’s asked to return to the skills that made him a mythic figure in the shadowy world of counterterrorism.
Follow Levon and his daughter while they go on the run from the feds and a growing army of enemies that Levon makes along the way.
“Levon is bad ass. Makes Jack Reacher seem like crossing guard.”
Available Now at Amazon and Kindle Unlimited
From Chuck Dixon and our friends at Wolfpack Publishing
Author Notes
June 2, 2019
Thanks for picking up this series.
The origin of these stories begins on the loving room floor of the house I grew up in. The very first stories I created were with toy soldiers and sometimes I'd have to mix historical periods in order to create battle scenarios. A few times plastic dinosaurs joined the melee! And that's really where Bad Times began. When I went to create a brand new set of stories I decided to indulge those adventure fantasies of my childhood in a time travel epic featuring a cast of the toughest, most resourceful soldiers I could think of. I hope you enjoyed these novels and are looking forward to future (or past) trips into the Tauber Tube.
Chuck Dixon
About the Author
Chuck Dixon is the prolific author of thousands of comic book scripts for Batman and Robin, the Punisher, Nightwing, Conan the Barbarian, Airboy, the Simpsons, Alien Legion, and countless other titles.
Together with Graham Nolan, Chu
ck created the now iconic Batman villain Bane. He also wrote the international bestselling graphic novel adaptation of J.R.R Tolkien’s The Hobbit.
His first foray into prose, the SEAL Team 6 novels from Dynamite Entertainment, have become an ebook sensation. He currently scripts GI Joe Special Missions for IDW publishing as well as the Pellucidar weekly comic strip for ERB Inc.
He calls Florida home these days.
You can connect with Chuck here:
Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/chuck.dixon.779
Website
http://dixonverse.blogspot.com/
Amazon
https://www.amazon.com/Chuck-Dixon/e/B001HOL26O
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