“Four,” Jake muttered. “Jesus…”
They had just reached the fantail when they heard a jet running high. They looked up.
“Point,” Flap said, and Jake did, enthusiastically, as Flap shot a quick glance back over his shoulder.
What happened next happened so quickly Jake almost didn’t react. Flap half-turned and his right arm swept down. The blade of a knife buried itself in the solar plexus of the gunman just behind him. This man staggered and looked down in stupefied amazement at the knife handle sticking out of his chest.
The man behind him had been looking up, trying to see the jet. He dropped his gaze in time to see Flap Le Beau hurtling across the ten feet of space that separated them. He swung the rifle, but too late.
With one vicious, backhand swipe, Flap cut his throat from ear to ear. Blood spouted from severed arteries as the man collapsed. In a continuation of his motion, Flap spun and rammed the knife into the left kidney of the first man, who was somehow still on his feet and trying to turn to bring his rifle to bear.
Meanwhile Jake Grafton had launched himself at the two spectators standing with their rifles cradled in their arms. They too had been looking up, which gave him just the break he needed. He took them both down in a flying tackle.
He got his hands on one of the rifles and used it as a club. He smashed the butt into one man’s Adam’s apple.
The other man had retained his rifle and now it fired, the muzzle just inches from Jake’s ear. Deafened, with the strength born of terror, Jake dropped the weapon in his hands and seized the barrel of the other man’s AK-47 as he drove a punch at his face. The blow glanced off his forehead, but the man struggled to hold on to the rifle, so Jake let fly again. This time his fist connected solidly and the man went to the deck, still holding on to the rifle. Jake ripped it from his hands and slammed the butt down on his throat with all his strength.
With the rifle coming up, he turned in time to see Flap inserting his throwing knife back into the sheath that hung down his back, inside his flight suit. The fighting knife had a triangular blade about four inches long — it went into the sheath worn on his left forearm, under the sleeve of his flight suit.
Le Beau picked up an AK-47, glanced at the action, then fired one round into each of the four men lying on the deck. Then he flashed a grin at Jake. “Still alive, by God!”
Jake grabbed the rifle on the deck at his feet and removed the magazine. He stuck it into a chest pocket of his flight suit. “I thought you ditched your knives.”
“I haven’t been without a knife since I was thirteen.”
“Let’s see if we can get to the bridge.”
“If it gets too hot we’ll go over the side and swim for shore.”
“Okay.”
With his rifle at the ready, Flap went forward on the starboard side. Jake took the port.
The bridge stuck out over the deck. Someone appeared in the window and Jake snapped off a shot. The window shattered and the head disappeared. A miss.
An open hatch revealed a ladder that probably gave access to the engine room. Jake pulled the hatch shut and rotated the lever that dogged it shut. He looked around for something to block the lever so it couldn’t be opened. Nothing.
He came to another open hatchway, a short passageway across the superstructure to the starboard side of the ship.
He paused, trying to decide what to do. Sweat was running into his eyes. And he was thirsty as holy hell. What he wouldn’t give for one drink of water!
Flap’s head popped around the corner on the starboard side. He saw Jake and came his way. “What did ya shoot at?”
“Someone on the bridge.”
“There’s at least five more guys on this tub, probably more.”
“How come they aren’t coming after us?”
“We’re probably pretty near their base. When they pull in, someone on the pier will take care of us.”
“We gotta get off this bucket.”
“They’ll gun us in the water.”
Jake wiped the sweat from his eyes and tried to think. “Somebody is probably in the engine room,” he said. “The ladder down is here on the port side. What say you go up to the bridge and keep them occupied. I’ll go to the engine room and try to disable this tub. Then we go over the side.”
“Which way?”
“Port side. In five minutes.”
“My watch isn’t working.”
“About five minutes. Or if the engines stop.”
“Okay.”
Jake checked to make sure no one was in sight, then he moved back to the engine room hatch, opened it and latched it open. The ladder down was actually a steep stair.
Uh-oh. He wished he hadn’t volunteered to do this.
What the hell! They were dead this morning when this pirate ship came over the horizon.
With the rifle at the ready and the safety off, he eased down the ladder, waiting for the inevitable bullet.
This is like committing suicide slowly.
The area at the bottom of the ladder was shielded by a large condenser. Jake paused behind it, wiped the sweat from his hands and gripped the rifle carefully. He eased his head out, so that he could look with one eye. He was looking aft along a narrow passageway between the ship’s two diesel engines. He saw a leg, the back of a leg. He pulled his head back and turned so he could see forward. Ease the head out and peek. No one.
Okay. Someone aft, no one visible forward. He would step out, shoot the guy aft, then swing so he could shoot forward.
That was a good plan.
He was going to get shot. Sure as shit.
He took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. His heart was pounding a mile a minute.
Now!
He leaped out and squeezed the trigger.
The man was using a pipe wrench on a valve. The bullets slammed him down. Jake spun. A man coming through the door shooting as Jake’s bullets caught him, hammered him.
Something slammed into Jake’s side, turning him half around.
He staggered, leaned back against the starboard engine and looked aft.
The man there wasn’t moving. The man forward had taken at least three in the chest.
Jake dug the extra magazine out of his chest pocket and substituted it for the magazine in his weapon. His left side was numb. Shock. He staggered aft. The magazine of the AK-47 on the floor looked like it still held ten shells or so. He pocketed it.
Now he heard a racket from topside that he knew were shots. Flap. He peered through the open hatch that led forward.
Fuel valves. This guy had been opening or closing these valves. The main tank must be on the other side of this bulkhead.
Which ones were the feed lines? He picked two that looked like they went up over the engines to the fuel injectors. Holding the rifle in his left hand, he began screwing the starboard engine valve shut. Then he closed the one to the port engine.
The engines would take a minute or so to die. If he had picked the right valves.
Unwilling to wait, he spied a large red valve at the bottom of the bulkhead with a pipe that wasn’t connected to anything. The valve had a rusty padlock on it. Must be the tank drain valve. He put one bullet into the lock. The lock broke, and diesel fuel began running out of the bullet hole.
Jake twisted the valve. It was rusty.
Desperate to be out of here, he laid down the rifle and used both hands. It opened. Fuel began running out, at first a trickle, then a steady stream. He kept twisting.
The steady throb of the diesels took on a new note. Several cylinders missed. The starboard engine died. By the time the port engine stopped he had the drain valve full open. He was getting splashed with diesel fuel.
The lights died to a dim glow when the port engine quit. With the generators off, the lights were using battery juice.
He grabbed the rifle and started aft through the engine room for the ladder. He heard more shots, quite clearly now that the engines were silent.