Jonah returned to the fantail, binoculars in hand. He scanned the waters behind them. No Scorpion, not yet. Either the submarine hadn’t yet surfaced or the Horizon was a great deal faster than he’d given Klea credit for. He swiveled back towards the mouth of the harbor, watching as pirates surrounded the three crushed skiffs, trying to untangle wounded men from the shattered fiberglass hulls.
Good, thought Jonah. If the whole pileup could suddenly burst into flames too, well, that would be super.
His next thought was uh-oh. He stepped back into the cabin and tapped on the back of the captain’s chair until Klea turned around.
“What?” she demanded.
“We may have a problem,” he said, pressing the binoculars into her hands and leading her to the fantail.
Back at the harbor, the pirates had worked out a solution to the invisible filament. The entrance to the harbor was still an unmitigated disaster, so they simply carried their skiffs over the jetty wall and splashed them into open water.
And there were still a lot of boats, at least seven or eight.
“I really hope your people can give us some backup,” said Klea.
“And I hope you know this will turn into a straight-up fight,” said Jonah. “I’m going to need a body back here helping me.”
“My place is at the helm. I’ll give you Fatima.”
The pirates hung back behind the Horizon, keeping pace but waiting until the last of their skiffs made the journey over the jetty wall. They’d start gaining ground soon, and in full force.
Still no Scorpion. Turning around would be suicidal. Jonah couldn’t fathom whether or not the Horizon could outrun the pirates or not, but his guess was that it would come down to combat.
Jonah removed the clip from the assault rifle slung around his neck and looked at the bullets within. Ten, maybe eleven rounds. Not much. He really should have checked the body of the pirate he’d shot for more bullets before kicking him overboard. Too late now. The pistol wasn’t in much better shape for ammo.
Fatima joined him on the deck, her arms overflowing with mines and extra rebar spears.
“Easy there,” said Jonah, carefully removing the mines from her uncertain grip. “These… these you bring up one at a time, okay?”
Fatima tried to mumble out an okay in return but couldn’t quite form the syllables.
Jonah took a position in the rear hatchway. It was open to the fantail, but still provided him a little cover, not that it would matter much. The last of the pirates spilled over the jetty walls like army ants on the march. The metastasizing collection of pirate skiffs surging forward, gaining ground on the Horizon.
Stashing the rebar spears in the wall, Jonah found a place for the mines at his feet. Fatima crouched behind him.
“Fatima,” said Jonah. “Here’s what I’m going to need from you. I’m going to use the pistol and rifle as best as I can, but there’s going to come a time when I get down to the spear guns.”
“Do you want me to use any of these weapons?”
“Only if I’m hit. Whenever I shoot the spear gun, I’m going to hand it to you for reloading and you hand me one with a spear in it, okay?”
“Understood.”
Fatima prepared for her job by rearranging the spear guns. She brought the nearest one, loaded, right past Jonah’s face, the sharp metal spear almost brushing his cheek. Jonah sighed. Not a good sign.
“If it has a pointy end,” he said, “do not aim it at me.”
“Sorry,” Fatima replied.
Two guns, two crossbows, ten mines and my swingin’ dick, thought Jonah. Some cloudy part of his brain remembered being in a worse position at some point in his life but couldn’t quite place it. Where the fuck was the Scorpion?
The collection of ten pirate skiffs danced across the water, just out of firing range. Unlike the Conqueror, the Horizon was a marathoner, not a sprinter. One of the skiffs on the edge of the main pack broke ranks, charging forward. Shit, it was fast. Klea laid on more power but the pirates gained visible ground with every second. The skiff used the smooth wake behind the Horizon as drag strip, charging towards the fantail.
Wait for it, thought Jonah.
Close now, the pirates on the bow of the skiff stood up, preparing to leap onto the Horizon the moment the two vessels touched.
Wait for it, he told himself.
The pirate skiff reached the stern of the Horizon and the first pirate, Kalashnikov in hand, leapt over onto the fantail. Jonah caught him with two shots to his legs. He stumbled backwards, falling into the narrow gap between the yacht and the skiff, disappearing with his weapon into the foamy wake.
The wounded man didn’t dissuade the other attackers. Jonah exposed his position, standing up to empty round after round into the crew of the attacking skiff. A lucky shot — the last one in the magazine — caught the pilot in the shoulder, spinning him around and knocking the tiller of the skiff hard starboard. The skiff, now full of bloodied, bruised men, jerked to the left, impacting the starboard pontoon with enough force to rattle the entire yacht. The skiff flipped, spilling men and weaponry into the frothing sea. The head start hadn’t been nearly enough to outrun the pirates.
The pirates didn’t stop for the swimming men. Instead, every single skiff advanced towards the Horizon simultaneously. Jonah heard the fierce crack of rifles firing as pirates on multiple skiffs opened up simultaneously, forcing him to take cover as bullets snapped past. Chunks of carbon fiber exploded from the hull.
Ten rounds, thought Jonah as he snuck a glance towards a crouching Fatima.
The professor was holding up, at least as far as he could tell. Her son would have reason to be proud — assuming they survived long enough to arrange a reunion.
Jonah took aim with the assault rifle, carefully squeezing out one single shot at a time, rationing fire into the massing cluster of skiffs. It was too far away to tell if he actually did any damage or not, but the shots seemed to hold the skiff fleet back, even if for a few moments. His rifle clicked empty and useless. At least with the pistol he had two or three bullets left, the Kalashnikov held nothing.
“Time for the mines,” Jonah called to Fatima. “I’m going to start chucking them over the back. I need you to hand them to me, one after another.”
Fatima nodded and handed him the first. Jonah clicked on the crude switch and threw it, arcing it over the back of the fantail and into the wake. Fatima handed him a second, third, and fourth, each disappearing into the foamy seawater in turn.
Shit. Nothing happened.
Then in the far back of the pack, one of the skiffs erupted into blistering smoke and fire, tearing apart the thin fiberglass hull of the vessel and dumping her crew into the sea. At least one of the mines had struck true.
No longer content to hang back and suffer whatever Jonah could shoot, launch, or throw their way, the pirates surged forward, firing, intent to end the engagement. All Jonah could do was duck as bullets whizzed overhead.
Jonah grabbed for the nearest of the two spear guns and fired. The rebar spear flew true at first, then spun, lost aerodynamics and dropped into the water.
Not good, thought Jonah. He would have liked to see a pirate kabob. He wished Klea really had had the opportunity to test the spear guns, work out the kinks. He handed it to Fatima for a reload but the surgical tubing was already shredded from the single shot.
Fearing ricochets, the pirates stopped firing and massed around the rear of the Horizon, dangerously close. They were about to be overrun.