Carnifex

MV Hoogaboom

Deep in his steel cocoon, Hoogaboom's captain thought, Thank Allah they don't have torpedoes. If they did, we'd be lost. For that matter, thank you, Almighty, that none of their aircraft were carrying, or got off with, any large bombs.

Overhead the captain heard what he thought must be aerial rockets smashing the upper deck. No matter; those can't penetrate. He looked at the screen tied in to the forward cameras. It was in this that the enemy ship was in view. There on the screen, the image amplified, a short man pointing with a sword directed the futile fire coming at Hoogaboom's bow. The captain laughed. Maybe if you had a couple of days to chew through, it might do some good, he thought. But you have mere minutes.

* * *

That worked, thought Pedraz, looking over the smoking holes in the enemy ship created by the forty, but it didn't buy us much.

Indeed, it had not bought anything but a reduction in fire from the freighter. It still closed on the helpless Dos Lindas; the distance now was just over one thousand meters.

Especially did it not buy us any time. Oh, God, for some time. With time even our forties could chew through. With time . . .

* * *

The patrol boats launched by the Hoogaboom went by the simple names of "Wahid" and "Ithnayn;" "One" and "Two." Why, after all, invest any emotion or any name into what amounted to throwaway weapons?

They'd held back, One and Two, after being launched. This was not out of any fear; the men aboard the boats had no expectation, nor perhaps even any desire, to live. But there were only the two. Ahead, they'd be vulnerable to the defensive armaments of the target. Astern, they could react to any threats that arose to their primary, and do so especially well against any threats to their primary's greatest point of vulnerability, it's long, broad flanks.

Thus, when the captains of One and Two saw the tracers from Trinidad, they'd begin to move cautiously and carefully through the smoke to where they thought they would find the rear quarter of whatever was engaging the Hoogaboom. Side by side they moved until the bow gunner on One saw the infidel boat. He immediately engaged, followed by Two's bow gunner as soon as that boat had closed enough to make out a target.

* * *

Pedraz felt more than heard the incoming fire from his starboard aft quarter. Indeed, the first he actually heard was when the machine gunner on that point screamed at being chopped apart by the concentrated fire of first one, then two, then a half dozen enemy machine guns that came from astern.

Poor Marco, Pedraz thought as he applied throttle to get the hell away from the position in which he found himself. Unseen, Legionary Turco's body slid across the deck, leaving a broad swath of blood behind, before plunging over the stern. He'd never had a chance to strap himself in.

* * *

There wasn't a lot of advantage either way. All three patrol boats, Trinidad, One and Two, were sleek and fast and armed. Trinidad with her forty, was much more heavily armed. Sadly, though, the forty could not fire astern and Trinidad could not turn without presenting a vulnerable side to the pursuing craft.

"And that fucking freighter is closing on the Dos Lindas," Pedraz fumed. "Shit, shit, SHIT!"

A near burst of machine gun fire passed just to Pedraz's right, splintering the glass to his front. "Shit!" Pedraz repeated.

Nothing for it but to go for the glory, he thought.

"Cris," the skipper shouted to his XO, "get astern and be prepared to man Turco's gun. You'll know when."

"What are ya gonna do, Skipper?"

"Diekplous," Pedraz shouted, as Francés scurried astern. Then he said into his microphone, "Clavell, bring your gun to bear ninety degrees to port. Guys, we're gonna turn and go right in between them. Fire as you bear."

* * *

Both One's and Two's crews, and especially the gunners, laughed maniacally as they pursued the fleeing infidel boat. It had been all too rare, in this war, to see the enemy actually turn and run on the battlefield. Such moments were to be savored. Especially were they to be savored when the time available for such savoring was destined to be very short.

* * *

Sweating profusely, heart pounding fit to burst from his chest, Clavell huddled behind his gun shield, eye pressed firmly to his sight. Beside him, Guptillo held on for dear life against the turn he was pretty sure the skipper was about to make.

"If you ever made a good shot, Jose, make one now," Guptillo said.

Eye still to his sight, Clavell couldn't answer by nod. Instead, he stuck one thumb in the air.

Suddenly, the boat slowed and began to turn to port. Clavell cranked the gun down to compensate, never moving his eye from his sight. Sea passed in his view, then more sea, then more . . . then . . .

Kawhamkawhamkawhamkawhamkawham. Clavell depressed the trigger on the forty as the veer of the boat brought it into view and almost aligned. Downrange, his first shell missed, bursting in the water. His second missed as well. But he held true to his aim and trusted the movement of the ship to align the target perfectly. Shells three through five, rewarding his faith, found their target, smashing the front of Two like so much kindling. Enemy sailors, and pieces of sailors, went flying in all directions. Others aboard Two, those further astern, continued to fire after only a brief, shocked pause.

"And now we charge. Banzai, motherfuckers!" Pedraz shouted over the rising roar of the engines, the crash of the cannon, and the cloth-ripping hum of his machine guns.

The Trinidad spurted ahead, her machine gunners, plus Guptillo and Clavell, trading what amounted to mutual automatic broadsides with the Ikhwan fighters of One and those remaining aboard Two. Sailors on both sides went down, some suddenly and silently, others with curses and screams. The armor worn by Pedraz's crew helped, but at this range, perhaps one hundred meters, it didn't help much. And the greaves didn't cover the back of the sailors' legs at all.

Astern, Francés leapt to his feet, almost losing his footing to Turco's wet blood, and grabbed the spade grips of the .41-caliber tribarrel. From across the water, he and an Ikhwan gunner from Two stared at each other for what might have been the longest nanosecond in human history.

"Motherfucker!" Francés exclaimed as he deftly swung the tribarrel to bear on the machine gunner. Before the gun was on target, his finger was already depressing the trigger, causing the electrically driven barrels to spin and the gun to spit out its eighteen hundred rounds per minute. While the mujahad's bullets went wide, Francés' swath of fire cut right across his target, from left hip to right ribs, slicing—though by no means neatly—the Ikhwan gunner in two, spilling his intestines to the deck.

* * *

Pedraz looked around his half ruined boat and his mostly ruined crew. Men shrieked in agony on the deck, with the boat's sole medic frantically going from one to the other, desperately trying to staunch the flow of blood here, relieve pain there.

Behind the Trinidad, One and Two lay smoking and dead in the water. Two was plainly sinking, though it was taking its time about it.

If I had more time . . .

Time was about up, however, and Pedraz knew what he had to do. "Clavell, cease fire," he said, gunning the engine and twisting the boat away. It made a tight turn, then headed off away from the Hoogaboom and slightly towards the carrier.

Picking up his microphone, Pedraz broadcast, "Agustin, this is Trinidad. Get the hell away from the freighter. Don't argue. Just do it."