Patient Z, page 19
Inside he found several stacks of boxes full of grenades and dynamite. The question was, how did he get these back to the Cora quickly? Running back outside, he found the answer. A couple of small dinghies with outboards remained tied up at the jetty. Too small and slow to be much use in a raid. So he loaded several boxes of explosives into them, then roared off down the coast to the Cora. The flotilla could only move at the speed of the slowest boat, and their slowest boat had been a lot slower than the Cora. He would catch up.
* * * *
Mitch resisted the temptation to sulk in his room for a second evening and went to join the group for dinner. He had to put up with looks both pitying and curious. Some people were sorry for him that he’d lost his man; others wondered what he’d done to drive Cal away. He took his tray to join Bren, who was sitting alone, unusually—Inez was working the serving line. Bren’s brooding air had probably put people off. But Mitch wasn’t deterred by it. As soon as he sat, she started talking like he’d been there all the time and had only turned away to get the salt.
“The key is gonna be the moms. Get them on our side, and we could tip the balance.”
“Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?” Mitch asked.
“The council elections, dammit.”
Of course. She had talked of little else since that meeting. Not even Cal’s departure had stopped her. She only talked about that in terms of what it might do to the council election. Mitch was sure she was sad to see him go, but she wasn’t the sort to talk about her feelings of grief and disappointment at losing Cal. She probably blamed Mitch, as he was sure many of them did, assuming he’d done something to upset Cal.
“Why the moms?” Mitch asked.
“Because we can appeal to their maternal instinct to protect the kids.”
“A little cynical of you, Bren.”
“This is politics.”
Indeed. Whatever it took, they had to make the women believe that this was where they were safest.
The alarm began to scream, and Tanya’s voice came over the PA. “Battle stations! Battle stations! Incoming boats. Defenders draw weapons and report to your battle stations. All noncombatants to the shelter. Repeat. All non-coms to the shelter.”
I am a fucking jinx.
Everyone abandoned their food and ran even before Tanya finished her announcement. Debbie was on armory detail, handing out weapons to a fast-moving line of the soldiers, who grabbed them and raced for the deck.
“I’m busting out the RPGs,” Bren said. Mitch could not argue with this idea. It was the best one he’d heard all day.
They shoved past Debbie, not even breaking her rhythm, and opened the long crates the rocket launchers lay in.
“Hey, Debbie,” Bren called. “Grab us a couple of volunteers to take these cases onto the deck.”
“Right!” The women had all collected their guns and gone. Debbie ran off to find some helpers. Mitch and Bren grabbed rifles and handguns and then headed for the deck with the launchers and a rocket each to get them started until the rest of the crates came up.
Mitch burst up onto the deck to find it surprisingly quiet. The boats must not be in range to fire on yet. There were shouted orders, most from Tanya, up on her sniper’s nest. But no panicky yelling, and Mitch was proud of his squad, quickly and efficiently getting on with taking position, ready to fight.
“What kind of time is this for an attack?” Mitch groused. It was dinnertime. Weren’t attacks meant to be at midnight, three in the morning, or dawn?
“Dusk,” Bren said. “It’s not a bad time for an attack. Human vision isn’t good at dusk or dawn, and we’re tired from a long day of work, not waking from a good night’s sleep like we would be at dawn.”
“You really were paying attention at West Point.”
“Ha!” She elbowed him. “I learned by doing, not in a classroom. Good luck.” They parted to take up their positions.
Mitch found his place at the rail and loaded his rifle, then the rocket launcher. Two women dumped a crate with several more RPGs beside him and ran off for more before he could say thanks.
He looked out over the water at the approaching boats—dark grayish shapes with lights on, confusing his vision. Bren was right. In full darkness you’d just target on the lights. But now he didn’t know if he was looking at shapes or lights. And he couldn’t tell how far away they were.
Tanya could. She had binoculars and a keen eye for estimating distance. Her voice came over the walkie-talkie.
“In range of RPGs.”
Here we go, then. Mitch raised the rocket launcher to rest on his shoulder and sighted on the boats. God, there was no chance he was going to hit one. He’d had all of two lessons in how to use this damn thing, and all he’d had to fire at was the sea—he’d hit that every time. But he took a breath, aimed at the gray shapes, and fired.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Cal stared at an explosion in the mass of boats ahead of him. He was coming up fast, only five hundred yards behind Ethan’s flotilla, the rig a dark shape just beyond. He’d hoped to overtake them before they got there and head off their attack, but he hadn’t been quite fast enough. They were attacking already. They spread out suddenly, no longer bunched up close together, and started surrounding the rig. Smaller shapes streaked away from the larger ones. The motor launches, carrying the men who’d try to climb onto the rig.
Cal would leave them to the defenders aboard the rig to tackle at least for now. He had bigger fish to fry. He steered for one of the cabin cruisers and grabbed a taped-together bundle of dynamite, with a grenade attached. Making these had not been easy, and he’d had to steer the Cora with his knees as he worked on the bombs. Ready…ready. Now! He pulled the pin of the grenade with his teeth and threw his bomb to land in the cabin cruiser as he hurtled past it. The men aboard—one steering, one at the machine gun at the prow—didn’t notice it, too intent on the attack. The man at the wheel even glanced in Cal’s direction as the Cora passed, apparently not realizing it didn’t belong with their group.
The bomb exploded, ripping most of the back end of the boat off. Its bow reared into the air and sank quickly, the gunner leaping for his life. Nice! Cal opened the throttle and blasted toward the next boat. Another bomb flew through the air. This one landed practically in the wheelhouse. The man at the wheel stared down at it. Cal couldn’t hear him over the roar of engines and gunfire. But he recognized the oh-shit face. The man jumped over the side. The bomb went off and split the boat in two. The engine or the fuel or something exploded with a mighty roar, belching flames up into the sky. Cal felt the heat on his back as he urged the Cora on, flat out, desperate to escape the blast, fearing a spark or piece of burning debris would float down into one of his cases of grenades and dynamite. It’d be Bye-Bye, Birdie then.
As he brought the boat back around to go after more of the cabin cruisers, he passed several of the small boats, his wake making them rock, or simply blocking their path with his boat. He heard angry yells coming from them. That just helped him target them better. He tossed grenades in passing, not always landing one in a boat, but even if he missed and hit the water, the subsequent explosion might hole a boat or tip it up, dumping the men out.
Cal swerved away as he realized he was getting close to the rig, where he was likely to get his ass shot by the defenders. The blood roaring in his ears made the gunfire sound distant, but it was close. And Ethan’s people had started to figure out they had an enemy right in amongst them as well as firing from above. He had to duck as gunfire came his way. A man on the prow of a cabin cruiser had turned his heavy gun on the Cora, but the movement of both boats sent his shots well over Cal’s head. Cal sighted on the man with his rifle, tried twice, and missed. Fuck, gotta take him out before…
The man jerked and flew backward, off his boat, into the water. A shot from the rig, Cal realized. Did they even know they’d saved him? Maybe not. With the gunner dead the other boat only had one man aboard, steering it. Cal revved the engine and plowed at it, seeing shock on the face of the wheelman. He didn’t smash into it; he passed the stern with its wide, inviting deck and tossed in his third bomb. As he roared away, the shock wave lifted his own stern, threw him into the wheel, and almost swamped the Cora’s bow. But it bounced back up, water pouring off it, and stayed afloat. When Cal looked back, the other boat was rapidly vanishing under the waves.
He had two more bombs, and there were five more cabin cruisers. Even as the thought crossed his mind, a huge bang from around the other side of the rig told him to correct that to four. Mitch’s people were using their rocket launchers. He grinned.
He realized he was straying very near to the rig again, and to the small boats attacking it. He peeled off to flank them and began tossing grenades. Gunfire made him duck, peeking up to see where he was going, fearful he’d steer the Cora right into one of the legs of the rig. He swore as something hit him in the back and twisted round in time to see what it was. A grenade. It rolled off him and dropped neatly into the box that held Cal’s grenades and his last two bombs.
“Oh shit!”
Cal was diving over the rail into the water even as he hit the T on “shit.”
* * * *
“Mitch!” Blanca grabbed Mitch as he ran past. “Something is weird. One of the boats. It’s attacking the others.”
“What?” Mitch leaned over the rail to see what she was talking about.
“That cabin cruiser. The guy on board is tossing grenades at the other boats.” Mitch saw it then, difficult to make out in the half-light, but a cabin cruiser for sure. A man, dressed all in dark clothes, dark-haired, was indeed tossing things at the small boats that were trying to get close to the rig. Boats that then exploded. She was right. And he knew who it was.
“It’s the Cora! It’s Cal! Hold your fire on that boat!” He yelled it at the others close by. “It’s the Cora!” He lifted his radio to his mouth and shouted into it, hoping he’d be heard. “All units. The Cora is down there. Check your targets. Repeat, the Cora is in the fight. Cal is in the fight. Check your targets.”
“It’s the only cabin cruiser without a gun on the prow,” Blanca said, and Mitch repeated it over the radio. Cal would realize the danger, surely, that he might be shot by the defenders. He’d protect himself. He was here. He was back! Mitch wanted to grin like a fool, despite the danger they were all still in. Cal was in the fight!
He looked over the rail again—just in time to see the man he was sure was Cal dive into the water. What the fuck? The Cora exploded. The shock wave knocked Mitch and Blanca to the deck in a heap.
As he let her go to scramble to her feet, she yelled something that sounded a bit too idiomatic for his limited Spanish skills. She retrieved her dropped gun, and the two of them hit the rail at the same second, looking down at the wreckage below.
“Get a light down here!” Blanca shouted, and the woman operating the floodlight turned it on the water. Darkness was falling rapidly. Bits of the Cora and other boats bobbed on the waves. Mitch searched, wanting to scream. Cal couldn’t swim. Why the hell hadn’t they taught him to swim?
“There!” Blanca shouted, pointing. Mitch saw it, a dark figure clinging to a piece of wreckage, even as it vanished from sight, floating underneath the rig. Mitch left Blanca there and took another couple of the volunteers. He raced for the winch the Cora had hung in, and as soon as he got there, he jumped and grabbed the cable, slid, hurting his hands, until his boot hit the hook, and he shoved his foot firmly into it.
“Lower me down!” he ordered the baffled-looking women.
“You’ll be shot!” one protested.
“Do it!” He’d take his chances. He had to get down there to Cal. “And point some light down here!” he added as the cable began to descend.
Down he went, away from the relative safety of the rig, hanging helpless and liable to be shot at any second, and he couldn’t even see Cal.
“Cal! Cal! Where are you?” he yelled. A floodlight came on above, dazzling him, but he heard something, faint over the racket of the guns and boats. His name.
“Mitch!”
His boots were almost in the water. He waved frantically for them to stop lowering him. Damn, he should have brought a life ring to toss to Cal. But something was moving toward him, and as his eyes adjusted he saw it was a man. The boat debris he clung to was being swamped. It wouldn’t float much longer.
“Cal?”
“Mitch!”
Mitch jumped into the water. The cold stunned him breathless for a second, but he shook it off, gulped a couple of deep breaths, and swam toward Cal. He felt sure he was moving with the speed of a glacier, but it could only have been a few seconds before he reached Cal.
As their hands met a wave smashed down on the piece of wreckage and tore it from Cal’s grip, pushing him under the water with it. His hand slipped out of Mitch’s.
“No!” Mitch plunged his arm into the sea where Cal had disappeared and grabbed something. A handful of Cal’s leather jacket. He heaved, with no idea where he found the strength, and pulled Cal up until his head was above the surface. Cal spluttered and spat out water. Mitch struck for the cable, towing Cal behind him. When he reached it, the hook was submerged, and he flailed with one foot until it caught.
“Hold on to me,” Mitch ordered, pulling Cal close with one arm, then grabbing on to the cable with the other. Cal wrapped himself around Mitch, holding on tight, one of his feet on top of Mitch’s foot in the hook. Mitch didn’t need to signal his people above; they must have been watching, seeing the two of them securely on the cable. It started to ascend.
Coughs racked Cal’s body. Mitch held him around the waist, fearing he was hurt and would lose his grip. But Cal clung to him all the way up, despite the coughing. They ascended into the glare of the floodlight. Mitch noticed the quiet as they reached the level of the deck, and hands hauled them both across to step off. The gunfire had stopped. The battle was over. His feet touched the deck, and he and Cal tumbled down onto their backs. Mitch rolled over and onto his hands and knees quickly, leaning over Cal, who was still coughing, spitting out water.
“Cal, look at me,” Mitch said, voice not as commanding and firm as he wanted it to be. Shaking a bit. He turned Cal’s face toward him. “Can you open your eyes? Are you hurt?”
Cal opened his eyes and stared up at Mitch. He spoke, his voice a croak. “No, not hurt. Breathed in half the ocean and swallowed the other half, though.”
Mitch went weak with relief, and his arms shook. He stiffened them. Cal didn’t need Mitch falling down on top of him. “We’ll get you down to the infirmary in a second. I just need to find out what’s happening.”
“I can tell you that.” It was Bren, panting and sweating, but with a big grin on her face. “They’re retreating. What’s left of them. We won, thanks to Han Solo here.”
“Wasn’t me that had rocket launchers,” Cal whispered in a pained voice, and Mitch decided that was quite enough for now. Cal was injured—inhaling water counted as an injury. Also he was soaked and lying on a cold deck in the night air. Time to get him out of here.
“Can you stand?” Mitch asked. Cal did, with Mitch helping him up and keeping him upright.
“I’ll bring the doc to the infirmary,” Bren said. “We’ve got a couple of minor injuries among the troops too. Let’s get everyone to the infirmary who needs to be there. The rest of you.” She raised her voice as the soldiers started to gather around. “You did great. But grab some water and a power bar or something and stay at your posts until I order you to stand down. He might just be regrouping.”
Mitch doubted it. Between the defenders and Cal they’d done a number on his flotilla. He helped Cal away and inside. Cal was wobbly on his feet, but the coughing had stopped. When they reached the infirmary, it was deserted, the medical staff still in the shelter and Cal the first casualty to arrive.
“Let me get your jacket off,” Mitch said as Cal sat on an exam bed. “And your boots.” Really he should undress him entirely; his clothes were soaked through, and the sooner he was out of them, the better. But he should leave that to the medics. Cal didn’t need anyone to tell him, though. He peeled his shirt off over his head and tossed it to slap wetly on the floor. Then he smiled wryly at Mitch.
“I guess I should be more careful with my clothes, since they’re the only possessions I have left.”
“We’ll find you some new clothes,” Mitch said. “It’s a shame about the Winchester, though.” Good. Banter. Keep it impersonal. This wasn’t the time to ask Cal if he’d be staying and if he’d maybe be getting back into Mitch’s bed anytime soon.
Cal fumbled with his fly button and swore. “My hands are numb.” He looked up at Mitch. “I’d appreciate a little help, if you can manage.”
What the hell was Cal doing to him? He stood there, dripping wet and shivering, looking like he needed someone to towel him off and give him a warming hug, and he asked Mitch to take his pants off.
“It’s unhealthy to sit around in wet clothes,” Cal said. “You should get out of yours too.” Mitch stood in front of Cal and had no idea where to rest his eyes. On Cal’s face with its intense expression? His chest, an all too familiar playground for Mitch’s hands? Or down at his hands as he pulled the zipper of Cal’s jeans down slowly, the fabric wet and heavy, hard to work. He was close enough he could hear Cal breathing, see the rise and fall of his chest.
He desperately wanted to pull Cal into his arms and kiss him. Not a “let’s get back together” kiss, but one of gratitude for Cal’s return, for his help against the attackers. He found himself too close, his eyes on Cal’s mouth, leaning in, when the sound of voices approaching made him stop and step back. The doctor and nurses burst into the room.
