Push Back: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (The Disruption Series Book 2) (9 page)

“We’ve been all over that, Cap. If things DO go tits up, I’m not handing one of our three machine guns to the bad guys. The other boat can shadow us until we get to the Intracoastal. By the time the cons figure out what’s up, we’ll be well away from them. I’ll try to contact you by VHF when we’re inbound, and you can send out the other boat to escort us in.”

Hughes sighed. “All right, but I don’t like it.”

“I’m not wild about it myself, but you know it makes the most sense.” Kinsey waited for Hughes’ reluctant nod, then continued. “Okay, Torres is in charge of my guys, but he’s clear he’s to take orders from you. That said, I’m figuring you’ll defer to his opinion when it comes to defense and security issues.”

“Absolutely,” Hughes said.

“READY TO SHOVE OFF, CHIEF?” came a shout from below. Both men looked down to see Bollinger standing in the patrol boat as it idled at the bottom of the accommodation ladder, the floating trailer secured to a towing bridle behind it. Kinsey raised his hand in acknowledgment, turned to Hughes, and offered his hand.

Hughes shook Kinsey’s hand. “Don’t worry about us, Matt. Just get to Baton Rouge and bring your family back. And try checking in from the Calcasieu Lock. Your antenna’s not very high, so you may be beyond VHF range, but call if you can.”

“Thank you, Jordan,” Kinsey said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Take good care of the Ark for us while we’re gone.”

Hughes nodded and Kinsey released his hand to rush down the accommodation ladder to the waiting boat.

Warden’s Office

Federal Correction Complex

Beaumont, Texas

Day 26, 10:45 a.m.

Darren ‘Spike’ McComb, formerly federal inmate number 26852-278, formerly recipient of a triple life sentence and currently captain of the Aryan Brotherhood of Texas, glared across the desk.

“So those idiots just let them cruise down the river liked they owned it? Is that what you’re telling me, Snaggle?”

Across from McComb, Owen Fairchild, aka ‘Snaggle’ for his dental issues, squirmed in his seat. “They reported in soon as they saw it,” he whined, “but you said no radios in case the ship had our frequency and was listening, and by the time they got word back here down the various lookout points along the river, the boats had already passed.”

“And nobody thought it might be a good idea to, you know, SHOOT THE BASTARDS!”

“They had that damned machine gun, Spike. Can’t blame the boys for not wantin’ to tangle with that. Besides—”

“All right, all right,” McComb said, “you say they split up?”

Snaggle nodded. “I had a couple of the boys on top of the big bridge. They said the Coast Guard boat with two guys on it turned up the canal toward Louisiana and our … the other boat with the machine gun hung around at the canal entrance for a while, like it was trying to make sure nobody followed the Coast Guard boat. Then they ran back to the ship at top speed.”

McComb bit back his wrath at the mention of the Sheriff’s Department patrol boat he’d lost in last week’s fight with the ship’s crew. He pondered the possibilities as the silence grew.

“Ahh … Spike?”

“Yeah, just thinking,” McComb said. “So they put a machine gun on our boat, but what happened to the one on the Coast Guard boat?”

Snaggle shrugged. “The boys said it didn’t have one. I guess that must be the one on our boat. Looks like they switched it over.”

McComb rubbed his chin. “Which likely means they ain’t got that many of them, maybe only the one. That’s all we seen, anyway.”

Snaggle shook his head. “I reckon one’s enough when they got open water or marsh all around. Ain’t no way to sneak up on ’em.”

“You just let me worry about that, genius,” McComb said. “Now what about this thing the Coast Guard boat was towing. What was it?”

“The boys said it looked like some sort of raft made out of oil drums. They never seen nothing like it.”

“Well, whatever it is,” McComb said, “I doubt it’s a problem for us, and a boat and two shooters out of the way cuts down the odds a bit anyway. What sort of intel you been able to develop on that ship?”

“I been keepin’ a lookout hidden at the terminal across the river, just like you said. Based on the uniforms and coveralls, we make it to be about a half dozen of those Coast Guard assholes, give or take counting the two that just left, and maybe twenty ship’s crew. They also have a bunch of women and kids. Hard to tell for sure, we can only see who comes outside on deck, but for sure less than fifty all told.”

“Shooters?” McComb asked.

Snaggle shrugged. “Best guess, I’d say max around twenty-five. We know the Coasties have M4s from our previous run-in, but we got no idea if the others are armed, and if so, how well. But it don’t really matter, Spike. With all that open water and that machine gun—”

McComb silenced him with a look. “I swear, Snaggle, if you don’t shut the hell up about that, I’m gonna cap your ass myself. It’s hard enough to get these morons all movin’ in the right direction without you wringing your hands like a pussy and moanin’ about how tough it is. Keep it up and you WILL regret it. We clear on that?”

“S-sorry, Spike. It’s just that—”

“How many troops we got?”

“Almost a thousand now,” Snaggle said, “but that don’t mean—”

“And how many shooters they got again? Maybe two dozen, if that? Now doesn’t that seem like the situation is leaning our way pretty heavily? Maybe they shot the hell out of us when we weren’t expecting it, but now we know the score, and we’ll crush ’em like bugs.”

“But that’s just it, Spike. They’re cut off on that ship, so they can’t bother us. Why don’t we just ignore ’em?”

“Because shit brain, they ain’t a problem now, but they likely will be. They got guns, and they’ll likely be lookin’ to grow, ’cause they can’t stay on that ship forever. Sooner or later, they’ll be a problem, and I’d rather take ’em out while they’re weak. They kicked our asses last week ’cause we didn’t know who they were or understand what was happenin’, but round two ain’t gonna go like that at all.” McComb paused. “I’ll figure out some way to take ’em out. Leave that to me. Now, how’s everything else going?”

“Damn good, actually. With the National Guard units tied up in Houston and Dallas and those FEMA assholes all clustered around the nuke plant in Bay City, we’re golden. And pretending to be cops is the icing on the cake. The nigger and beaner gangs have been runnin’ wild, and everybody was happy to see uniforms.” He smiled. “At first anyway. Course, they feel a bit different after we mostly cleaned out the bangers and started collectin’ taxes. But there’s still a lot of guns out there, and people are startin’ to get pissed, but we can handle it ’cause we’re the only ones with any organization.”

“Which is just my point. We don’t want this friggin’ ship to become the center of any organized push back. We need to take care of them now.”

M/V
Pecos Trader

Sun Lower Anchorage

Neches River

Near Nederland, Texas

Day 26, 1:35 p.m.

Hughes stood on the flying bridge, struggling to hide his skepticism as he watched the two engineers put the finishing touches on what he’d secretly christened ‘Gowan’s Folly.” He cleared his throat loudly, and Dan Gowan, the chief engineer, turned from what he was doing, his irritation obvious, if unstated.

“You need something, Cap?”

“Uhh … are you sure this is completely safe, Dan. I mean, the starting air pressure is, what, three hundred pounds?”

“Four hundred and fifty pounds,” Gowan corrected, nodding to the first engineer who was working beside him, “but Rich used extra-heavy pipe for it all and ran the new line straight up from the starting air tanks in the engine room. We hydrostatically tested it to over seven hundred pounds; she’s safe. Whether it works is another question.”

Hughes studied the arrangement. It was simple enough, a two-inch pipe running up the outside of the deckhouse and terminating in a high-pressure ball valve mounted on the top handrail at the edge of the flying bridge. The valve was connected via a short section of hydraulic hose to the closed end of a six-foot-long section of three-inch pipe, with the open end of the pipe pointed at the riverbank in the distance. The three-inch pipe was fastened to the top handrail via a ball joint that allowed the ‘muzzle’ of the little makeshift cannon to be pointed in any direction, and the flexible hydraulic hose accommodated that freedom of movement. Two handles welded on the back end of the pipe could be grasped like a steering wheel and used to aim the crude device.

“We’ll need some sort of sight, but before we invest time in that, I figure we need to see if it even works. Ready, Rich?” Gowan asked the first engineer.

“Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess,” Rich Martin replied. He reached over and swiveled the muzzle of the cannon inboard, then dipped into a canvas bag at his feet and pulled out a Coke can. He held it with a rag and smeared it with a thick coating of grease from an open pail on the deck, then eased the greasy mess into the muzzle of the makeshift gun. It was a snug fit and the muscles in Martin’s arms flexed as he pushed the can down the pipe with a broomstick handle.

Martin looked puzzled, then glanced over at Gowan. “It’s getting harder. We forgot to open the vent, Chief.”

Gowan nodded and opened a small vent valve at the rear of the crude cannon, rewarded by a hiss as trapped air escaped and Martin pushed the can all the way down the pipe with ease. Gowan grinned and closed the valve.

“Now that’s a tight fit,” he said.

Hughes gasped. “We’re shooting COKES!”

“Just the cans,” Gowan said. “Polak had a bunch of empties and I stopped him before he crushed ’em so we could use them as molds. We cut the top off and filled ’em with Quikrete. But this is just an experiment; we should be able to shoot anything that’s a relatively snug fit. We’re smearing grease all over ’em to make a tighter seal and speed the exit. Also if we have to point it down at something close, there’s a vacuum behind the can now, which will keep the round from sliding out the barrel. That was Rich’s idea.”

Hughes was shaking his head in disbelief, but beside him, Manuel Torres, formerly petty officer first class, United States Coast Guard, was grinning. “First class, Chief,” he said to Gowan. “So what’s the range?”

Gowan shrugged. “We’re about to find out.” He turned to Martin. “You want to aim or work the valve, Rich?”

“The honor’s all yours, Chief. You take the shot and I’ll work the valve. What’s your target?”

“I’m just gonna aim her up over the refinery docks so we see how far she’ll throw a round.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Martin said, moving to the valve. “Just say when.”

Gowan grabbed the handles with both hands and turned the pipe toward the refinery docks on the far bank, elevating the muzzle at approximately forty-five degrees.

“Ready. Aim. Fire!”

Hughes flinched as Rich Martin moved the valve handle a quarter of a turn and back, cycling the valve open and closed, and a roar momentarily filled the air. Then Torres shouted, “There,” and Hughes followed his pointing finger to be rewarded by a flash of bright red as the sun reflected off the can already across the river and high above the refinery docks. It flew out of sight, and scant seconds later, a loud metallic CLANG was heard in the distance.

Rich Martin grinned over at Gowan. “Sounds like you killed a tank in the tank farm, Chief.”

Gowan’s grin was equally wide. “Well, I’ll be damned. It actually worked.”

Hughes was grinning too now, but he looked over to see Torres staring at the Sun Terminal docks across the river.

“What’s up, Mr. Torres?” he asked.

“Watch the docks over there a minute. You’ll see it.”

Hughes turned his attention to the far terminal, and soon he did see it, the flash of sun reflecting off a binoculars’ lenses.

“Dan, do you see—”

“I got it,” Gowan said. “Right below the loading arms.”

“Well, you got your range test,” Hughes said. “You want to try for accuracy?”

Gowan grinned at Hughes. “Why the hell not. Let’s see if we can treat our curious friend to a Coke, Rich.”

Martin reloaded, and Gowan pointed directly at the target, but the shot splashed into the river just short of the terminal dock. They reloaded again and Gowan elevated the muzzle a bit, and the shot flew over the top of the loading arms to land out of sight in the open field behind the terminal. On the next reload, Gowan aimed lower and was rewarded by the ringing sound of a rock on steel as the fourth shot slammed into the top of the loading arms.

“Movement on the dock,” Torres said, binoculars clamped to his eyes. Moments later they heard the roar of a distant engine and saw a plume of dust rising from the gravel road hidden from their view by the terminal dock.

“I do believe our peeping tom decided to leave,” Hughes said, and the others laughed.

Hughes grew serious. “This is great, Dan. Can you rig up any more?”

Gowan stroked his chin. “I think we can probably scrounge up enough material to rig up a few more. But it needs work. We need to come up with a better sight for close shots and some sort of graduated angle marker so we can make sure we get it back on target after each reload when we have the muzzle elevated. Then we need to—”

Hughes held up both hands, palms outward. “Spare me the details. Let’s just say you’re going to improve it, right?”

“Well, of course,” Gowan said.

Hughes’ grin returned. “Good, because your new title is chief of engineering and artillery.”

Gowan was about to protest when they heard the ring of footsteps on steel treads and turned in time to see Georgia Howell at the top of the stairway to the flying bridge.

“Captain,” she said, “Matt Kinsey’s on the VHF. They made it to Calcasieu Lock and he wants to talk to you.”

Chapter Five