The Marines drew up the lead end of a second, heavier nylon line, then the Banner’s towing drum began to clank and rumble and the rusty length of a heavy steel hawser swayed slowly toward the tanker’s deck, drawn upward by the straining muscles of the line handlers.
Copper-jacketed lead ricocheted and a glass panel in the bridge windscreen exploded. Amanda flinched away from the spraying shards, her narrowed eyes focused on the inching progress of the hawser.
It seemed to take hours for the cable to extend upward. At last, the end of the hawser reached the Bajara’s rail and the inexperienced line handlers wrestled with its stiff metallic weight. Oh, God, don’t drop it! Amanda pleaded mentally.
Hogged across to the central towing butt on the tanker’s stern, the towline finally was hooked into place. In the flare light, Amanda saw the acknowledging wave of the line handlers.
“On deck. We have the tow established. Give me some slack — I’m running us out to set a short harness. Stand by to set your wildcat on my mark. On deck on the Bajara! Cast off all mooring lines. I say again, cast off all mooring lines!”
Emerging from the tanker’s deckhouse, Quillain ran forward, hunkering low to stay out of the arc of fire streaming up from the pier. The volumes were building as more and more Union soldiers joined the fight. Bodies clad in Marine utilities lay sprawled along the rail, some writhing in wound agony, others deathly still.
The demolitions team crouched around an open cargo cell hatch, silently focusing on rigging one of the demolition charges. Quillain passed by without speaking. It was never a good idea to interrupt an explosives man on a job. Continuing amidships, he sought out Sergeant Tallman.
He found the company top lying prone on the deck edge amid a broad fan of empty 7.62- and 5.56-millimeter shell casings, switching off between his overheating M-4 carbine and a captured FALN.
“Situation?” Quillain yelled over the gunfire dropping down beside the noncom.
“Bad, Skipper. The locals are getting their act together.”
Peering over the deck lip, Quillain saw the truth in the NCO’s words. In the unsteady illumination of the dockside fires and the Union star shells he could make out shadowy figures working their way down the pier from one patch of cover to the next. Other Union troopers covered the advance with a steady, hammering barrage of small-arms fire.
“We’re taking casualties, Captain, and we can’t maintain this fire volume much longer. We’re going through ammo like shit through a goose.”
“We won’t have to, Top. Captain Garrett’ll be pulling us out of here in a minute.”
Damn it, woman, Quillain beamed the fervent telepathic message into the night, you are pulling us out of here, right?
She must have heard him. Amanda’s reply came back crisply over the tactical radio link. “On deck on the Bajara! Cast off all mooring lines! I say again, cast off all mooring lines!”
Thank you, Lord… and Lady!
“Cast off!” Quillain took up Amanda’s call and bellowed it fore and aft. “Cast off all lines!”
A Marine lunged for one of the spring lines near the gangway, struggling to draw the heavy manila python up and off of its mooring butt. Before he could finish the task, his head snapped back and his helmet went flying. He fell backward, a thin, catlike wail escaping him.
“Corpsman,” Quillain roared, “Corpsman!” He rolled and crawled down the deck to the mooring butt. Slugs tore at the deck lip, hot metal fragments raking his hands as he tore at the heavy fiber cable, horsing it off the butt and over the side.
Peering back over her shoulder, Amanda gauged the widening distance between her craft and the tanker. All right. That’s about enough for a good short tow.
“On deck. Set your wildcats. Snub her off!”
The boatswain spun the brake wheel and the towing drum locked with a rusty shriek. On the tug’s bridge, Amanda rocked the throttles forward and the diesels responded with a rising growl of power and a churning flurry of foaming wake. Slowly the massive steel hawser rose up out of the sea.
Obe Belewa saw the mooring lines falling away from the tanker’s sides. Somehow they were getting the ship under way. There was no more time left. There was only now! Gun in hand, he rose to his feet and lifted his voice above the crash and chaos of the fighting.
“Soldiers of the Union! Follow me!”
A deep roiling shout lifted simultaneously from a multitude of throats. Scores of figures rose up from behind cover along the shattered pier and charged headlong for the tanker’s gangway.
“Captain,” Tallman yelled, “this is it! They’re starting their big push!”
“Then push ’em back!” Quillain snarled. Ignoring the saturation of hot lead in the air, Quillain came up on one knee at the edge of the deck, sweeping the Mossberg 590 to his shoulder. Then he started killing.
A computerized fire-control system might well have been operating his weapon. Reload… seek target… lock on… shoot! Reload… seek target… lock on…shoot! The slide of the pump action sang and smoking shell hulls accumulated at his side. Three… four… five… half a dozen Union soldiers fell to the slug load thunderbolts cast by Quillain’s 12-gauge.
The last round in the magazine slammed into the chamber and the Mossberg’s foresight traversed, seeing new prey. The ghost ring acquired another figure, a tall, running man. Brandishing an upraised pistol, he led a cluster of Union troopers toward the base of the gangway.
The calculating machine that had taken over Stone Quillain’s mind analyzed for a fragment of a second. Officer… priority target… lock on! The Marine’s finger tightened on the trigger.
Two hundred feet aft, at the Bajara’s stern, the Union Banner’s towing hawser snapped taut.
The tanker’s deck lurched as the shotgun roared, its muzzle bobbling slightly. The figure caught in the ghost ring fell, but not with the shock-borne decisiveness of a square hit.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Quillain rolled back from the deck edge, fumbling in a harness pouch for more ammunition. Then he caught himself and relaxed. It was okay. All of a sudden, one miss didn’t matter. They were moving.
Something seared across the calf of Belewa’s right leg, exploding into the decking at his feet, the shock and spray of wood splinters taking him down.
Get up! Get up! Get up! he screamed at himself, forcing his half-paralyzed leg to move. He clawed the Browning from where it had fallen and staggered to his feet, forcing himself onward a few hunched steps more. Then he realized the exchange of gunfire had slackened abruptly and that the charging Union soldiers around him were stumbling to a halt.
The tanker was moving, the black wedge of water widening between her after end and the pier even as they watched. The squeal and groan of distorting metal sounded from amidships as the gangway twisted laterally and then slipped from the dock’s edge to crash into the harbor. Outlined in the glare of the falling starshells, the Bajara slowly gained way astern, backing out toward the central channel, slipping beyond reach.