He was being a goddamned fool, he told himself. He was just scared that the two of them would be caught together doing what they were doing.
And with a strange certainty, he knew that wasn't it at all.
He lifted himself high enough on the seat to look in the backseat. Zimmerman's Thompson was on the floorboard. That left Zimmerman and Sessions with nothing but Zimmerman's pistol.
"What are you doing?" Ellen asked, taking her mouth off him.
"There's a Thompson in the backseat," McCoy said. "You grab it and run after me."
He pushed his thing back in his pants and took his Thompson from the floorboard.
"What's the matter?" Ellen asked.
"Goddamnit, just do what I tell you!" he snapped, and sprang out of the car. As he trotted down the road, he chambered a cartridge in the Thompson. ' I'm going to race the hell down there and find the two of them sitting on a bench waiting for the ferry. And they are both going to think I've lost my fucking mind.
But they weren't sitting on a bench when he trotted around the bend.
They were up against a steep bank, and there were twenty, twenty-five Chinese, dressed as coolies, crowding them.
The convoy would be broken in pieces in only one place between Huimin and Tientsin. The only place, therefore, where it could credibly be reported that Chinese bandits had attacked it. And the Japanese had damned well figured that out.
And they had handed the Japs the opportunity on a silver platter. Sessions and Zimmerman were isolated and practically unarmed. After the 'bandits' finished with them, they would have come to the car.
Zimmerman had the flap on his.45 holster open, but hadn't drawn it.
"Take the fucking thing out, for Christ's sake," McCoy called out.
The Chinese looked over their shoulders at him. Several of them took several steps in his direction. Several others moved toward Zimmerman and Sessions.
McCoy was holding the Thompson by the pistol grip, the butt resting against the pit of his elbow, the muzzle elevated. He realized that he was reluctant to aim it at the mob.
Goddamnit, I'm scared! If I aim it at them, the shit will hit the fan!
He pulled the trigger. The submachine gun slammed against his arm, three, four, five times, as if somebody was punching him. He could smell the burned powder, and he saw the flashes coming from the slits in the Cutts Compensator on the muzzle.
Everybody froze for a moment, and then the Chinese who had been advancing on Zimmerman and Sessions started to run toward them. After that the shit did hit the fan. Pistols were drawn from wherever they had been concealed. McCoy saw that at least two of the pistols were Broomhandled Model 98 Mausers, which fire 9-mm cartridges full automatic.
McCoy put the Thompson to his shoulder, aimed very carefully, and tapped the trigger. The Thompson fired three times, and one of the Chinese with a Broomhandle Mauser went down with a look of surprise on his face. McCoy found another Chinese with a Broomhandle and touched the trigger again. This time the Thompson barked only twice, a dull blam-blam, and the second Chinese dropped like someone who'd been slugged in the stomach with a baseball bat.
As he methodically took two more Chinese down with two-and three-round bursts from the Thompson, he saw Zimmerman finally get around to drawing his pistol and working the action.
A movement beside him startled him, frightened him. He twisted and saw that Ellen was standing a foot behind him. Everything seemed to be in slow motion. He had time to notice that she had her breasts back inside her brassiere, but that there was something wrong with her dress. Then he figured out that she hadn't gotten the right button in the right hole.
She had Zimmerman's Thompson in her hands, holding it as if she was afraid of it. And around her shoulder was Zimmerman's musette bag. The bulges told him there were two spare drum magazines in it. Her eyes were wide with horror.
He returned his attention to the mob, and fired again.
"Shoot, for Christ's sake!" McCoy shouted. Zimmerman looked baffled.
Sessions finally did something. He snatched the Colt from Zimmerman's hand. Holding it with both hands he aimed at the ground in front of the Chinese. He fired, and then fired again. McCoy heard a slug richochet over his head.
That dumb sonofabitch is actually trying to wound them in the legs!
He put the Thompson back to his shoulder and emptied the magazine in four- and five-shot bursts into the mob of Chinese. There was no longer time to aim. He sprayed the mob, aware that most of his shots were going wild. And then when he tugged at the trigger, nothing was happening. The fifty-round drum was empty.
Conditioned by Parris Island Drill Instructors to treat any weapon with something approaching reverence-abuse was the unpardonable sin-he very carefully laid the empty Thompson on the ground and only then took Zimmerman's Thompson from Ellen.
When he had raised it to his shoulder, he saw that the mob had broken and was running toward the ferry slip. For some reason that produced rage, not relief. Telling himself to take it easy, to get a decent sight picture before pulling the trigger, he fired at individual members of the now-fleeing mob. He was too excited to properly control the sensitive trigger, and the Thompson fired in four-, five-, and six-shot bursts until the magazine was empty. By then there were five more Chinese down, some of them sprawled flat on their faces, one of them on his knees, and another crawling for safety like a worm, his hands on the gaping wound in his leg.
McCoy ejected the magazine and went for the spares in the musette bag around Ellen's shoulders. He snared one on the first grab, but as he did so he dislodged the top cartridge from its proper position in the magazine. He put the magazine to his mouth and yanked the cartridge out with his teeth. Then he jammed the magazine into the Thompson and put it back in his shoulder. Two Chinese were rushing toward him, one with a knife, the other with what looked like a boat pole. He took both of them down with two bursts. One of the 230-grain.45 slugs caught the second one in the face and blew blood and brains all over the road.
And then it was all over. No Chinese were on their feet; and when he trained the Thompson on the ground, the ones down there seemed to be dead. Except one, who was doggedly trying to unjam his Broomhandle Mauser. McCoy took a good sight on him and put two rounds in his head.
There were more than a dozen dead and wounded Chinese on the ground. Some were screaming in agony.
Lieutenant Sessions ran over to McCoy, looking as if he was trying to find something to say. But nothing came out of his mouth for several moments.
"My God," he whispered finally.
McCoy felt faint and nauseous. But forced it down. Then Ellen slumped to her knees and threw up. That made McCoy do the same thing.
"What the hell was that all about?" Sessions finally asked.
"Shit!" McCoy said.
Ellen looked at him, white-faced, and he thought he saw disgust in her eyes.
"I guess the Japs decided you're not really a Christer, Lieutenant," McCoy said.
"Jesus Christ, the film!" Sessions said. "Where is it?"
"Goddamn it," McCoy said, and started to run back to the car.
He was halfway to the car when he heard shots and then a scream. He spun around. Zimmerman had finally got his shit together. He had put a fresh magazine in McCoy's Thompson and was walking among the downed Chinese, methodically firing a couple of rounds into each of them to make sure they were dead.
Ellen was doing the screaming, while Lieutenant Sessions held her, staring horrified at what Zimmerman was doing.
And McCoy saw the cavalry finally galloping to the rescue.
The ferry was in midstream. Lieutenant Macklin, who had found his steel helmet somewhere, stood at the bow with his pistol in his hand and a whistle in his mouth. Behind him were the two BAR men, and behind them the rest of the drivers, armed with Springfields. McCoy did not see the Reverend Mr. Feller.