Robert Jones - Blood Tide

When Katana returned, he was dressed in the crisp, high-collared whites of an officer of the late Imperial Japanese Navy. The crest on his cap was the gold, sixteen-petal chrysanthemum of the emperor. From his left side swung a long, sheathed samurai sword.

“Now, my old friend, we are ready for battle.”

“And about time,” Boatswain Culdee replied.

The sun hung red and fat, shifting shape as it dropped toward the horizon. No wind. Heaving seas. The evening star, to the east, was green. Seamark lay beyond the Dangerous Ground, hove to while Miranda pumped her bilges. She could not bring herself to leave just yet, not until she knew the outcome of the battle. All day she’d heard the booming of Millikan’s guns. No reply from Venganza . She had navigated the nightmare channel through reefs and coral heads with infinite skill and every bit of seamanship she owned. Checking the bilges, she found no leaks, just the water laid there by the hawk winds. Coming topside she stared to the west, back into the channel, into the setting sun. Two black shapes were moving slowly, twisting and turning through the ball-peened glare of sunset. Smaller, quicker shapes accompanied them—the Thunders. One was definitely with Venganza —Kasim and Curt had lasted. The first of the larger shapes was certainly the Venganza: Miranda recognized the low schooner profile and high sheer as the boat turned into the widening exit of the channel. Then Venganza heeled sharply to port. Rounded up. And stopped. She saw men pulling the tarpaulin from Sôbô’s gun. And suddenly she saw what he had been aiming at all along.

“Why the hell we stopping here?” Culdee asked. “We’re barely out of the coral.”

“Surely you know why, old man?” Sôbô smiled, but his eyes were hard black stones. “Surely you recognize the beauty of it, the classic structure, the wonderful inevitability? We’ve crossed his bloody T! All of our guns bear on him. Only his forward guns bear on us. Togo at Tsushima! Oldendorf at Surigao! Classic!”

Culdee looked, smiled, and laughed out loud. “You have. Let’s hit ’em now. Hard.”

“Keep the conn if you would, Boatswain. I’ll serve the gun. Just hold her on the engines, right here, across the channel mouth.”

Sôbô walked forward, no haste, his whites almost phosphorescent in the eerie light of sunset.

Beautiful, Culdee thought. There’s three vengeances at work here. Miranda’s on that guy Curt. Mine on Turner. And Sôbô’s on the whole U.S. Navy. This is Surigao in reverse. Miniaturized, sure, but the same setup. Only this time Sôbô is Jesse Oldendorf. And Turner is Admiral Nishimura. Beautiful . . .

Two Thunders shot forward through the last light, away from Armadillo , up the last hundred yards of the channel. The schooner lies broadside, their intent is obvious. Hit her hard, rake her fore and aft with machine-gun fire, with 40-millimeter grenades from the stubby M79 launchers. Then board her and bolo what’s left of the crew.

Flames leapt from the forward hatch of the schooner. A great white-hot gout of water threw one Thunder’s bow sideways. Her motor overrevved and exploded in a chuff of white smoke. Dead in the water. The Tausuq crewmen stared at one another, mouths gaping. The second round blew the fast boat to bits, the Tausuqs along with it . . .

“What’s that?”

“A gun, sir. A big one. Up there on the forward hatch. It was under that tarp.”

“That sneaky bastard! We—”

“Won’t help to bitch, sir. We’d better get out of here. He’s got more gun than we’ve got.”

“What do you mean? We can’t get out of here! Back down through this goddamn channel? What makes you think he’s got more gun?”

“That’s a five-inch, sir . . . I know the sound.”

“Well, hit him, Billy. That’s a wood hull. Hit him with the three-inch. Hit the sneaky yellowbelly before he hits us.”

Here it comes, Culdee thought. He flinched involuntarily at the flash from Moro Armado’s bow. The shell exploded on Venganza’s fo’c’sle, starting fires and sending splinters flying. Sôbô fired from up forward again—good, the gun’s okay. Sôbô’s round smashed the gunboat’s pilothouse, taking off half of it in a great blinding flash.

Moro Armado’s second round hit the schooner’s cabin roof. Gone. Splinters stung in Culdee’s arm.

A Thunder bellowed out of the dark, machine guns winking. Bullets ripped along the schooner’s gunwales. Bales of marijuana jumped at the impact. Men screamed. Small-arms fire stabbed at the Thunder, but she was gone. A grenade blew on the ruined bow.

Sôbô’s gun fired, the flame ten feet long. The Moro Armado was slewed half-sideways now, nudging toward the coral, and the 4.7 round smashed her after gunmount. Culdee saw it wrench up and backward in the flash, the gun crew in fragments.

He couldn’t see Millikan’s remaining Thunder, but their own fast boat was alongside, under the lee of the schooner, away from Moro Armado’s gunfire. Kasim was yelling to Sôbô. Sôbô leaned down toward him, pointed toward the Moro Armado , chopped the air. Kasim nodded, grinning. Boarding party! Culdee saw Curt, dull-eyed and white in the glare of the fire now blazing on Venganza’s bow. Then they were gone . . .

Then they were back—no, it was the other Thunder, Millikan’s, loaded to the gunwales with Tausuqs off the Moro Armado . Culdee ducked away from the muzzle flashes of their guns. The Thunder thumped alongside. Tausuqs over the rail—bolos flashing—another boarding party. Theirs.

Culdee saw a Tausuq swinging at him. He ducked, and smashed the man with his right fist, felt bone snap, then drew his pistol with his left hand. An awkward cross-draw. Shot Tausuq in the face. Splat. Red hole.

Sôbô fired . . . a hit between wind and water. Red flames shot from Moro Armado’s engine room.

The Moro Armado fired again. Culdee felt the deck lift under his feet, then sag. Venganza lost way. Her engines, too, were gone now. A fire blazed down below, flames licking through the companionway hatch. He used the last of the schooner’s way to nudge her bow well up on the coral berm of the channel. She ground up over it, growling deep in her guts, her timbers yelping like a pack of hounds. She stopped, aground. But the channel was blocked now. There was no way out for either boat.

The two heavies lay not a hundred yards apart, exchanging gunfire.

Culdee, crouched low, played a fire extinguisher on the flames from the companionway. He moved down as they died down, forcing the fire back deeper, deeper, until rising water from the shattered hull killed it altogether. Then he crawled back topside. An AK from one of the dead Moros was lying nearby. He checked it—loaded, intact. He rested it over the body of the Tausuq he’d killed and began firing single shots at the burning Moro Armado . Something roared out of the dark—Kasim’s boat. Curt was slumped in its cockpit, blood dark on his face.

“I take him to Captain Miranda,” Kasim yelled up to him. “She out there somewhere. I see before sunset already. Then come back, we fight them together.”

Culdee nodded vaguely. Miranda? She’s safe, though. Do what you want, old man, he thought. I’ve got my hands full. He looked up to take aim. Something sticky hit his face. Then another sticky thing. His eyes were sticking together, and he blinked, then blinked them clear. He looked up into the dancing firelight. The sky was full of gossamer scarves, drifting down on the light land breeze from the islands— baba del diablo —spiderwebs on the wind. They were sticking on everything. The two guns—Sôbô’s and the Moro Armado’s —fell silent. The gunlayers couldn’t see to shoot. Culdee ducked down the charred companionway. Up in the forward cabin he groped in the dark until he found the punt gun. Powder—yes, right here—and shot pouch. He dragged the gun back on deck and began loading it.