Robert Jones - Blood Tide

“Can she fight?”

“Those are old three-inch guns, fore and aft,” the commo said. “Reliable but slow. I’ve replaced her original machine guns with M85s; those are .50 calibers, fast and hard hitting. Ought to be able to handle any pump boats or kumpits that get uppity with us.”

He looked Curt over, head to toe, with a doubtful twist to his mouth.

“Say, you’re not the leader of these half-assed rebels who’re making to attack us, are you?”

Curt laughed—a sudden, spontaneous guffaw.

“Fuck no,” he said. “ Sir . I don’t know what you’re even talking about. Rebels?”

“I didn’t think you were,” the commo said. “Yeah, rebels or something like that. Funny stuff going on around here. I don’t have it all scoped out yet, but I’m taking no chances. Too damned many coincidences, all aimed in our direction. We’ll fight from here if it comes to that.”

“Well, this run went fine,” Curt said, “except someone managed to water our gas reserve. That’s why I’m so late getting back. No more Phantoms, though, thank Christ.”

“Amen to that. Say, did you get any kind of weather report this morning? I don’t like that sky that’s shaping up out there.”

Curt had noticed it, too, alto- and nimbostratus moving in from the northwest with what looked like big anvil clouds looming on the horizon. Weather on the way.

“The weather band out of Puerto Princesa forecast something they called vientos azores for this part of the Sulu, starting sometime this evening. That’s ‘hawk winds,’ isn’t it?”

“Shit,” the commo said, nodding a gloomy yes. “They’re supposed to be a bastard, according to Torres. Just what we don’t need if it comes to repelling a sneak attack.”

Torres came into the shed and up the accommodation ladder.

“Forecast of hawk winds on the radio, sir,” he said, saluting the commo and grinning. “Probably baba del diablo , too, the men say. It’s that time of year.”

“What’s baba whatchamacallit?”

“Means ‘devil’s drool,’” Billy said. He laughed. “They say you gotta be there to appreciate the full effect.”

All through the day boats kept arriving at Perniciosa—outriggers, kumpits , the long, brightly sailed canoes called vintas—and debarking heavily armed Moros. Kasim’s men met them in their own boats and guided them in through the Dangerous Ground. Culdee watched them for a while, then walked up the shore away from the landing. He felt awful about Miranda. He knew she was right, in her way, and he knew for sure that if she hadn’t arrived at the house in California, he’d be a dead man by now. Dead of booze and despair, maybe with his head blown off by his own shotgun. Yet he had to stay, had to kill Turner—at least see him die. The whole business of Brigadune, of that entire war, of his naval career so stupidly terminated—by Turner, he was sure now—none of it would count for anything if he didn’t see Turner die. There were ghosts out there, crying to be avenged. And ghosts inside himself as well, demanding that he be the one to do it.

Christ, he needed a drink. He’d come far up the shore by now, kicking broken seashells. Gulls were circling above, screaming in the strong sea breeze of midday. He knew he could get a drink back at the base. There were racks upon racks of bottles in the mess where they ate. Scotch, bourbon, gin, rum, brandy, sake—Sôbô’s navy followed the British tradition when it came to drink. He could just ease back there, slide into the mess, pour himself one stiff one. Just one.

Sure you could, he told himself. He walked on. Ahead he saw something in the haze of the surf: animals milling in the wash of the waves, gathered around something there on the shore, fighting over it, driving one another away, then quickly turning to feed again.

As he came closer, he made them out. Island dogs. Mongrels. Skinny and scabbed with old wounds and touches of mange. Ratty tails, long snipy snouts, flashing teeth. He had heard them last night, howling in the dark. Now here they were. How long had they been living on this island? Forever? They were eating something dead that had washed up from the sea, something gray and rotten—he caught the stink of death from a hundred yards off.

Then suddenly in his heart he was back at the shiplike house in California, drunk on the veranda, watching wild dogs tearing at dead things on the surf-pounded beach. He felt again the despair, the total, utter weakness of himself at that time. No. He would not take a drink when he got back. He would not take a drink. He would certainly not take a drink until the fight was finished. Until Turner was dead. Then he would take a drink. If he really felt like one.

He turned and walked back.

Sôbô called a meeting in the hour before noon. Culdee sat in the mess hall beside Miranda, who would look at him only with cold disdain. Sôbô was accompanied by a short, wiry man in fisherman’s clothes, a cold-eyed man with a white spade beard, short, almost military-cut white hair, and hands that were not those of a fisherman. With him was a dark, handsome woman in torn but respectable clothing, Filipino, not Tausuq. The soldierly man looked Caucasian, maybe Spanish. The woman looked exhausted—angry, frightened but exhausted.

“This is Father Cotinho,” Sôbô told the group. “He and Mrs. Rosalinda Aguinaldo have just arrived from San Lázaro. He brought news which I must with reluctance—with repugnance—pass on to you.” He looked at Miranda. “Your friend and shipmate Mr. Pascal is dead.”

Culdee felt Miranda stiffen; her eyes went wide.

“He was murdered by Millikan and his henchman, Billy Torres. But he revealed nothing detrimental to us in our upcoming fight while he was held by them. He died bravely, a shipmate to the end.”

“How did he die?” Culdee asked. Miranda looked at him appalled, as if to say, How could you ask such a cruel question?

He’d had to ask it. Freddie was his shipmate, too.

Padre Cotinho made a cross in the air. Mrs. Aguinaldo looked down and away.

“They crucified him” Sôbô replied. “Yesterday was your Good Friday. They crucified him on the Gólgota above Lázaro City. They lanced him to death on the cross.”

Miranda’s hands covered her face, and her head fell forward. Culdee could feel her shaking. He saw tears seeping through her fingers, down her forearms, pooling on her legs, sliding off. He put his arm around her.

Padre Cotinho nodded solemnly, confirming Sôbô’s statements.

“We see this, Señora Rosa and me,” he said in a deep, heavily accented voice. A sad voice. “These bad mens. Muy malo . The Satan’s own child, they are.” He paused, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “I bless your compadre beforetime he die. I remove him his sins. He was my good amigo , my frien’. He is in heaven with Our Lord.”

Miranda kept shaking. Culdee hugged her hard, and she leaned against his chest. Culdee’s own eyes were wet now. He fought the sobs deep in his chest.

“Millikan has removed nearly all his fast boats to his base at Balbal,” Sôbô continued. He would not look at Culdee. “That is to our advantage. For that is where our heaviest blows will fall. We can run with him now, and we outgun him. Our mines have been seeded in all channels Millikan’s vessels might use to attack us. A special force of indigenous freedom fighters will assault the Balbal base from the rear. Flanking attacks along the shore from north and south will pin him in his fortress. Our Q-boat and its escorts will block any escape seaward. If he comes out to fight, we will destroy him.”

Sôbô looked around the room. Culdee followed his eyes. Younger Japanese were translating for the older ones, gathered in a clique at one side of the mess hall. Kasim was translating for his own men. For a change Kasim was not smiling. The Moros half-drew their bolos and proved their edges against hard thumbs. The Japanese nodded gravely.