Robert Jones - Blood Tide

Now the two pump boats lay off, paralleling Venganza’s course out of gunshot range. There were three men in one boat, two in the other. One of the three climbed up on his engine cover to get a better look at them. He danced slightly, as if on coals.

“Must be scorching his feet,” Culdee said. “They’ve been running wide open.”

“Tausuq, hard feet,” Kasim said. He slapped his own soles—hard and hollow-sounding, like old leather or horn. “ Muy calloso .”

Culdee slipped below for a moment. When he returned, he had his .30/30 case, with the butt of the oiled walnut stock just showing through the unzipped fleece of the lining.

“You watch,” Kasim said. “You must look frighten of us.” He widened his eyes and drooped his mouth in mock fear. Then he jumped up onto the cabin roof and waved to the pump boats. He yelled to them in Tausuq. The two boats began to converge on Venganza . But slowly, slowly.

“They sniff crippled meat,” Kasim said softly. “They would pick the bones.” He waved and yelled some more, laughing happily. He pulled his bolo and gestured fiercely at Miranda and Culdee. They cowered convincingly.

While the boat with two crewmen lay off, the other came alongside. Two Tausuqs in baseball caps and ripped sarongs swung over the taffrail. They were young and carried bolos. As they steadied on deck, Kasim grabbed one and cut his throat. A Moro rose from beside the mainmast and shot the other as he turned. From the main top, a long clattering burst chopped down the two in the boat lying off before it could get under way. Empty brass clanked down and bounced off the deck.

The pump boat alongside burst away in a great horrified roar, throwing oily spray across Miranda’s face. She heard a loud, heavy, single bang beside her, and as her eyes cleared, saw Culdee crouched against the taffrail, the .30/30 out and tracking. Another bang. He worked the lever, brass flew. He shot again. She saw the escaping pump boat suddenly buck and swerve sideways. Its engine died. Pale blue smoke . . . The Tausuq at the tiller—an old man with wild gray hair—tried to leap overboard, diving low toward the outrigger. Culdee fired a fourth shot. The Tausuq disappeared underwater, flailing.

Culdee was up, levering in his last round. “I don’t know,” he yelled, “did I hit him?” His face was pale under his tan, and his beard blew in the following wind. Kasim yelled up to the lookout. The lookout shouted back, nodding vigorously, his face in a wide, white grin.

“ Sí! ” Kasim said. “Suleiman say you kill him. Sharp eyes, Suleiman. El águila . ‘Eagle’? Here.” He poked a hard finger under Culdee’s right armpit, then poked him in the lower left ribs. “Through and through,” he said. “ Muerto! ”

Culdee turned and vomited over the side. He retched again and again, emptying his stomach. Then he sat weakly on deck with the rifle across his knees. “Too much adrenaline on an empty stomach,” he said to no one in particular. His smile was weak and shaky, apologetic. Freddie came up to him.

“They would have done us worse already,” he said in a soft voice. “They would be laughing now. You good man, Culdee.”

Culdee turned and retched again.

“Okay,” Miranda said quietly. She, too, was pale. “Let’s get back on course.”

Looking astern, she saw gallows birds already swinging over the sinking boats.

From his hammock on the lanai, Commodore Millikan watched Curt’s Thunder and two others depart for their Thai run. A few minutes later he saw Billy Torres approach the Sea Witch in a pump boat. The big dog on the cabin roof studied him silently. Pure menace. The commodore watched Billy anchor near the yawl, then shrug into scuba gear and slide over the side. Good. That morning Abdul had come with Billy to the commodore and reported the severed head. The commodore was furious—“You should have told me about it right away!” he raged. “What did you think you were up to?”

“Obeying orders,” Abdul said. His mouth wore a sullen twist, but then it always did. “You say many time, use chain of command, not bother you with stupid businesses.”

“Well, damn it,” the commodore spluttered. “Next time you find something like that, bring it to me or to Mr. Torres.”

“You mean like another American head, or what?” Billy asked. All innocence, of course.

“I mean something important!” the commodore shouted. He saw the houseboys watching him fearfully. One of them, though, was hiding a grin. That was Daoud, the one with the good English. “Get out of here!” he yelled at them. “Go help Rosalinda pluck those chickens.” They departed quickly for the butcher block, where the estimable Rosa was killing the evening meal.

“ Mr . Torres,” the commodore said, “you will go with Abdul out to that yawl as soon as Mr. Hughes has departed on his run. The two of you will dive up that head and bring it to me. On the double.”

“So Abdul doesn’t go along with Curt this run?” Torres asked. “Who do you want to replace him? And won’t Curt get to wondering why no Abdul this time?”

The commodore hadn’t thought of that. Get hold of yourself, he thought. He tried to swallow his fury. No, he realized, his goddamn embarrassment.

“You’re right,” he said at last. Calmly. “Abdul goes with Curt. You dive it up alone, Billy. You’re scuba-qualified. Now . . . get to it.”

While Billy dived, the commodore dozed. He hadn’t been sleeping well lately. Not since the Phantom attack. There’d been fuck-ups before on the Thai end, always were in a business like this. But never before had such sophisticated aircraft been involved. Not that Phantoms were top-line planes anymore, compared with what the real navies and air forces flew. But for Southeast Asia? This was strange. And now a white man’s head. . . . He dozed off into uneasy dreams of carnival sideshows, leering Asian magicians, severed heads floating in dusky air and flickering like old black-and-white movies . . .

He woke to the sound of footsteps on the crushed-shell walkway that led up to the lanai. A timid tap on the screen door. Ah, Billy! But when he swung from the hammock, he saw two Filipinos, a man and a woman, standing at the door in their Sunday best. The man wore a pressed but shiny black suit, white shirt, and black tie; the woman, a lumpy gray dress and a silly straw hat with plastic fruit on it. They were gray-haired, solemn.

“What do you want?” the commodore snapped at them.

“We’re from the gospel, sir,” the man said. He gestured with a black-covered book. “Are you saved, sir?”

Goddamn it! Jehovah’s Witnesses! You couldn’t get away from them—not even out here, in this cannibal isle.

“Yes, I’m saved,” the commodore said. “Now go away and save someone else.”

“But what church are you, sir?” the old man persisted. The woman stared at him, smiling weakly but bravely.

“None of your goddamn business! Now clear out before I call the houseboys to drive you away with whips. As Christ scourged the money changers from the Temple.”

“You are disturbed, sir,” the old man said gravely. “If we could but speak with you awhile, perhaps—”

“No! Can’t you see, I’m busy? Now scram, both of you!”

“We will just leave you a copy of this Good Book, sir, and some brief, simply written pamphlets with consoling words from the Prophets. If you care to keep the book, a small donation—”

But the commodore was advancing on them now with blood in his eye. The old man laid the book on the stoop, then he and the woman fled. Her high heels spiked the lawn, and she almost fell, but the old man caught her arm, and they redoubled their speed.