Authors: EE Knight
March in Country (44 page)
“Shit!” the gunner roared as brass casings fell into the canvas recovery bags. “What’s that thing made of, moon rocks?”
Valentine had never heard that moon rocks were bullet resistant, but the man was under stress.
A hot hand washed across
Cottonmouth One
and the gunner was gone, whisked away by bullets like a strong breeze plucking a loose piece of paper off a desk. Valentine heard distinct splashes as bits of the gunner struck river, his eyes blinded by the white streaks of tracer fire. Miraculously, he’d avoided being hit.
Cottonmouth One
and the gunner was gone, whisked away by bullets like a strong breeze plucking a loose piece of paper off a desk. Valentine heard distinct splashes as bits of the gunner struck river, his eyes blinded by the white streaks of tracer fire. Miraculously, he’d avoided being hit.
He jumped into the blood-splattered position, feet finding purchase on the rough platform. He checked the drums on the twin machine gun and opened fire.
The Atlanta Gunworks Type Three had more of a kick. The gun gently chattered in its mount. The hardest part was keeping aim with the boat rushing across river. As
Cottonmouth One
heeled he had to constantly adjust elevation.
Cottonmouth One
heeled he had to constantly adjust elevation.
The rain came down harder, shielding them from both visual and radar—or at least Valentine hoped for that to be the case.
Cottonmouth
limped upriver, leaving a single boat to watch matters at the boom.
Cottonmouth
limped upriver, leaving a single boat to watch matters at the boom.
They held a dispirited council of war at an abandoned riverside bar.
Some entrepreneur had tried to make a go of it as a rest stop for boatmen and River Patrol. It had been painted in the past ten years, and there was signage up, huge block letters advertising EATS BEERS MUSICS in block letters big enough to be read on the other side of the Mississippi.
The Delta’s flotilla had paused near the boom, ready to protect it tonight or open it in the morning—if not sooner, with the weather clearing.
In the open waters of the Gulf, the
Delta
would have made short work of the
Cottonmouth
flotilla, where its speed and accurate fire would have reduced the boats to blackened wrecks in a quarter of an hour. But on the twisting Mississippi, she couldn’t make use of her speed and even her supremely light draft only allowed her to use the relatively narrow barge channel.
Cottonmouth
boats could float on a heavy dew, as the rivermen phrased it.
Delta
would have made short work of the
Cottonmouth
flotilla, where its speed and accurate fire would have reduced the boats to blackened wrecks in a quarter of an hour. But on the twisting Mississippi, she couldn’t make use of her speed and even her supremely light draft only allowed her to use the relatively narrow barge channel.
Cottonmouth
boats could float on a heavy dew, as the rivermen phrased it.
Cottonmouth One
had been so badly damaged by gunfire that Coalfield—himself with a painful splinter wound—had transferred flotilla command to
Cottonmouth Four
.
had been so badly damaged by gunfire that Coalfield—himself with a painful splinter wound—had transferred flotilla command to
Cottonmouth Four
.
“We could just abandon the river, right?”
“They just saw us run and hide,” Chieftain said. He’d seen it from
Cottonmouth Five
. “To me, that seems like the perfect time to attack.”
Cottonmouth Five
. “To me, that seems like the perfect time to attack.”
“Except for those guns on the
Delta
,” Coalfield said. “We’ll be as waterlogged as those hulks on the boom in two minutes.”
Delta
,” Coalfield said. “We’ll be as waterlogged as those hulks on the boom in two minutes.”
“A lot can happen in two minutes,” Chieftain said.
“He has a point,” Valentine said. “I wonder if something could be attempted.”
“Not with our flotilla.”
“I was thinking—more like a canoe. Have to find out what kind of swimmers those ratbits are, first.”
Their watch boat reported that the River Patrol flotilla and its giant weren’t chancing the boom in the dark and storm. But God knows what they would try tomorrow. If the
Delta
got in among the crowded barges ...
Delta
got in among the crowded barges ...
Valentine stood, gripping the rail, looking at the beached barge, listing under its load of rusted containers.
Containers.
He’d have to swallow his pride and ask Makak for his assistance.
Valentine practiced with the ratbits on the back of
Cottonmouth Four
.
Cottonmouth Four
.
The hardest part was getting the line to float in such a way that the ratbits could use it. Though small and discreet, they weren’t strong.
Valentine reconciled himself to spending the night cold and wet. The Mississippi in April would be unpleasant, especially on his still stiff wound, but it would be a vacation compared to the wild river trip raiding Adler’s headquarters, when he’d been in and out fast-moving snowmelt for three days in an insulation suit.
They found him a green-painted aluminum canoe on
Cottonmouth Three
. It had a couple of bullet holes in it but was otherwise sound. Valentine would have preferred a plastic composite—less sound when scraping against branches or if he accidentally banged it with his paddle, but it was not to be.
Cottonmouth Three
. It had a couple of bullet holes in it but was otherwise sound. Valentine would have preferred a plastic composite—less sound when scraping against branches or if he accidentally banged it with his paddle, but it was not to be.
“Don’t suppose you can make me feel warm,” Valentine asked Makak as it rode clinging tight to his belly.
I can make you not mind the cold so much. It is like a stiff drink, however. It will slow your reflexes and brain activity.
“Then forget it,” Valentine said.
Pellwell rode in the front of the canoe, paddling. She’d insisted on coming along on this final mission.
They clung to the Missouri bank. A quarter mile from the boom, they portaged to the downriver side. Pellwell stumbled noisily but held up her end in more ways than one.
On the downriver side they paddled north toward the boom. There were sentries on the bank, watching the ropes fixing the boom to some sturdy tree stumps, trunks, and sunken anchors.
Pellwell slipped into the bottom of the canoe.
“I need to start playacting.”
Just imagine yourself a Reaper. Move as it does. Scan as it does. I will do the rest
, Makak advised.
, Makak advised.
Valentine had seen enough Reapers to fake the exaggerated, long-limbed movements. He turned the canoe toward the bank and stared hard at the River Patrol guards there, as if he were checking them and not the reverse.
Cigarettes were hurriedly extinguished. If the guards had looked any more alert, they would have pissed voltage.
Silently, Valentine turned out to the boom. He felt as naked as if he’d stepped out of the shower under all those eyes, but the ruse, whose effects were invisible to him, seemed to be working.
They found some floats and old, moldy life jackets helping hold up one of the wrecks. With them, they formed a makeshift float for the rope.
Then it was time for Valentine and the ratbits to go into the water. He cheked their gear one last time. Everything depended on a Miskatonic researcher and her chittering little creatures with brains that would fit into the palm of his hand.
They came at first light, sure as sunrise.
Valentine stood on the prow of
Cottonmouth Four
, daring the tracers to intersect on him.
Cottonmouth Two
pushed a little ahead of
Four
on a turn, wetting him with spray, before Captain Coalfield opened her full out.
Cottonmouth Four
, daring the tracers to intersect on him.
Cottonmouth Two
pushed a little ahead of
Four
on a turn, wetting him with spray, before Captain Coalfield opened her full out.
According to Pellwell, the ratbits had done their job and fixed the lines to each of the rudders. From there, they swam back to the boom. He’d warmed their tiny little bodies, hugging them tight while they chittered and gave him little thumbs-up gestures.
The
Delta
trailed soggy hulks like a puppy with tin cans tied to its tail. Its prow swerved this way and that under the drag. Catamarans were not famous for their ability to tow.
Delta
trailed soggy hulks like a puppy with tin cans tied to its tail. Its prow swerved this way and that under the drag. Catamarans were not famous for their ability to tow.
He could tell the river sailors were nervous at their guns. Coalfield was busy directing the boats, especially deciding on the key moment for the fire tug to get under way, so it was up to him to do something colorful.
He clambered up onto the slick cabin roof at the front of the racing boat and took hold of the fore anchor line.
“Hiy hiy hiy-yup!” Valentine hallooed to the line of boats, closing fast on the
Delta
. Not that they could hear him.
Delta
. Not that they could hear him.
Some feral part of him lost itself in the yelling. If he yelled, he didn’t think about the second stream of tracers emerging from the
Delta
, or the third, or what would happen in the next few seconds once the radar control on the guns corrected for wind and temperature.
Delta
, or the third, or what would happen in the next few seconds once the radar control on the guns corrected for wind and temperature.
Here it comes ...
Two streams converged, fast, ready to tear him and
Cottonmouth Two
into scrap, blood, and food for the catfish and gars.
Cottonmouth Two
into scrap, blood, and food for the catfish and gars.
Flowers of bullet-torn water closed on
Cottonmouth Two
as though a phantom horse approached. All Valentine could do was howl defiance, hanging on as Captain Coalfield worked his throttles to dart out of the way.
Cottonmouth Two
as though a phantom horse approached. All Valentine could do was howl defiance, hanging on as Captain Coalfield worked his throttles to dart out of the way.
The streams lifted from the water, passed overhead with the low susurration of torn air.
Valentine forced himself to believe his eyes. The
Delta
lurched; one of the boom boats it was towing was hung up.
Delta
lurched; one of the boom boats it was towing was hung up.
With the beast pinioned, Valentine played his floating trump card.
The fire tug motored forward, shielded by barges piled high with rusting containers full of sand. The Golden Ones had labored through the night, while Valentine was occupied on the river, filling the containers with tree limbs, driftwood, brush, rocks, anything that might stop or deflect a bullet once it punched through the thin side of the shipping container.
The
Delta
managed to get one gun pointed at the approaching hulk. A stream of fire lit up the glimmering dawn.
Delta
managed to get one gun pointed at the approaching hulk. A stream of fire lit up the glimmering dawn.
From across the water, Valentine heard the buzz-saw sound of bullets striking the containers.
But still the tug pushed on, absorbing the punishment of the cannon fire. All around it, river combat raged as the smaller craft tore each other to pieces with machine-gun fire. Valentine saw blood splattered on windscreens, dead men lolling at their guns, debris, dust, and splinters kicked up by bullets tearing through boat superstructure. Without the support of the big catamaran,
Cottonmouth
was winning, as two of the River Patrol boats had gone to the aid of the
Delta
.
Cottonmouth
was winning, as two of the River Patrol boats had gone to the aid of the
Delta
.
It closed, and the fire nozzles started. The first few seconds of flow came limp and desultory, little more than a drinking fountain. Then the water went bright white, and arced up into the air over the barrier of container ships.
Three mighty jets of water fell across the
Delta
, with such force it pushed even the triple-hull of the catamaran over into a list.
Delta
, with such force it pushed even the triple-hull of the catamaran over into a list.
The
Delta
crabbed sideways, pushed into the shallow banks and riverside snags.
Delta
crabbed sideways, pushed into the shallow banks and riverside snags.
Valentine saw two crewmen, caught on deck, swept overboard by the torrent.
The barge with its single container full of Grogs pushed forward, smaller boats whizzing around protectively.
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