"Leave me alone.!'
Benson was on his feet. "Hey!" he snapped. "Fuzzface! The lady said to leave her alone!"
Douglas closed his eyes. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, but then he was on his feet as well. Then other Pittsburgh crewmen rose, chairs scraping on the floor. Behind the bar, the bartender was furiously punching out a number on a telephone. The bar was suddenly so quiet they could hear the clicks of the bartender's fingers on the buttons.
The biker shoved the girl away and swung to face the semicircle of white-uniformed sailors. In the background, the other bikers were slowly forming a phalanx, moving toward the face-to-face showdown. Several wore leather jackets emblazoned with a flaming skull and the legend
"Skullbangers."
"Faggots in your tighty whities!" he sneered. "I'll shove those cute little sailor hats up your asses so far you'll fuckin' choke on 'em!"
"We don't want trouble," Douglas said, his voice even. "Let us buy you a drink and—"
"You got trouble, faggot!" the biker screamed. His hand dipped into a pocket, then reappeared, a switchblade snicking open in a deadly flick of motion. "Take 'em, boys!"
Benson reached down, snatched up the heavy glass ashtray from the table, and swung it roundhouse, bypassing the outthrust knife and connecting hard with the side of the biker's head. Neither ashtray nor skull shattered, but the biker staggered heavily to the side. Scobey knocked the knife from his hand, sending it skittering across the floor.
An instant later, another biker rushed up and grabbed Benson by the jumper. Douglas picked up a chair and swung hard, crashing seat and legs into the tough's back and knocking him down. Benson grabbed a handful of tangled beard and pulled, hard, eliciting a wild yelp. Pivoting hard, he rammed his captive headfirst into the bar with a satisfying thud that didn't quite crack the oak paneling, but then someone hit him in the back with a pool cue so hard the wood splintered, and the biting pain drove him to his knees.
The next few moments were a whirling kaleidoscope of noise and movement and pain. Benson staggered back to his feet, then went down again as a beefy fist collided with the side of his face.
For a moment, the other four Pittsburghers held the bikers at bay, standing shoulder to shoulder with chairs raised like a shield wall of old. Rushing forward with a yell, they drove their enemies back a few steps… butthen the bikers recovered, grabbed the chair legs, and a wild tug-of-war ensued, a battle where the outnumbered and outmuscled submariners must soon lose. Fists flew, connecting with meaty thwacks and shrill yells.
The waitress was screaming. Other patrons were fleeing, squeezing through the open door and into the street. An alarm shrilled as some of the former customers slammed out through an emergency exit in the back rather than risk getting caught up in the free-for-all near the front door. The bartender was wading forward with a baseball bat, screaming obscenities… but one of the bikers plucked the weapon from the man's grip and hurled him back across the bar with a stiff-armed shove.
Together, Scobey and Douglas picked up their table and charged, crashing into the bat-wielding man and driving him down and under. Boyce took another biker down with a chair, but then was struck from behind and sent sprawling onto the floor.
Another civilian was on the scene now, a big, slab-muscled man with a gray mustache and a length of lead pipe wrapped in duct tape. "Break it the hell up!" he bellowed.
"Shut the fuck up, Macy!" one of the Bangers yelled back. "Get outta my way!"
Benson thought he could hear the approaching wail of sirens. "C'mon, guys!" he shouted. "Let's get out of here!"
But then someone had picked him up bodily and hurled him through the air. He struck the big plate-glass window and instinctively covered his eyes, knowing he was about to smash through and into the street… but miraculously the glass held and he hit the floor, his back shrieking pain.
Scobey hit the glass above him, and this time the pane gave way in a hurricane of whirling shards. Big C crashed through and into the street.
This, Benson decided, was definitely a time for the better part of valor. They didn't stand a chance against these monsters, and if they tried to stay and fight, they would be cut to pieces. Picking up the stunned Boyce, he staggered for the door, ducking as a beer bottle sailed past his head and smashed against the doorjamb. Jablonski and Douglas followed, fighting a rearguard action by throwing chairs, bottles, glasses, and anything else that came to hand at their foes.
But then a sudden rush by a trio of bikers blocked them from their exit. Benson let Boyce slide to the floor, and the remaining three ' Burghers stood back-to-back, facing the menacing ring of leather and steel that was closing on them now from every direction. There were eight of the Skullbangers surrounding them, not counting two out cold on the floor. Not very good odds, Benson decided. The bartender and the man with the lead pipe — Benson thought he must be the owner of the joint — stood beside the bar, watching.
A little help would be a good thing Just now, Benson thought. Then one of the bikers lunged, his face a hideous scowl as he barked paint-peeling obscenities. Scobey kicked him hard in the knee, dropping him, but then the others were piling on. Benson was hit in the side of the head and knocked down. The next thing he knew, several stinking, hairy bodies were piling on top of him, raining down blows with fists, bottles, and at least one set of brass knuckles. He curled up, trying to protect his head, neck, genitals, and kidneys all at once. His ears were ringing, and his mouth tasted of copper and salt.
Shrill whistle blasts cut through the bedlam, mingled with sirens. "Awright… awright!" someone was screaming.
"Break it up!"
Several more hard blows landed, but then Benson was being hauled to his feet. His uniform jumper was blood-splattered and dirty. His side hurt like hell, and the room was spinning wildly. It took him a moment to identify the newcomers, a half dozen Shore Patrol, in helmets and armbands bearing the letters SP in white on black, swarming into the bar and separating the combatants.
"Cavalry to the rescue!" a bloody-faced Scobey shouted, though Benson had never heard the Shore Patrol ever called that. They waded in, black nightsticks at the ready.
"What the hell's going on!" an SP chief yelled with a voice like the trump of doom.
"Your people smashed my place the hell up!" the civilian with the lead pipe yelled. He pointed. "Look at my place! They smashed it up! Hassled my customers! Who's gonna pay, huh? That's what I wanna know! Who the hell's gonna pay?"
"Okay, mister, okay," the chief said, making calming motions with his hands. "It's all under control now, okay? We're taking them in. You can come down and press charges."
"I want this damage paid for!"
"It will be, sir. But you have to come down to the brig and press charges…. "
"Shit!" Benson muttered, rubbing his head. "I thought… "
"We're the scapegoats, Rog," Douglas said. He sounded bitter. "Business as usual!"
"Shit!"
The SPs roughly hustled them out of the bar. Outside, an SP van squatted in the street, red-and-blue lights flashing. Someone opened the back, and the five submariners were hustled in, and none too gently.
As they drove off, the chief was still trying to calm the bar's owner.
Six hours later, they were in the Shore Patrol's drunk tank at their Mainside headquarters in Vallejo. It was a small and crowded community wedged in behind steel bars, with two reeking, open toilets and the stink of alcohol, sweat, urine, and vomit.
"Man," Benson said, shaking his head, "this just ain't right!" He was sitting on one of the narrow cots in the cell, a cell now holding a couple of dozen sailors and Marines, with standing room only for newcomers.