“All we want—” began Neil.
“Don’t turn around,” interrupted a voice from behind Neil and Philip. “Throw your guns on the rug.”
Someone Jeanne couldn’t see had come into the cockpit behind Philip and Neil and had a gun on them. Neil, after a brief hesitation, threw his gun onto the rug between Bart and Michael. Philip threw Bart’s gun and his automatic after it and Jeanne reached down, lifted her skirt and, her hand trembling, pulled out the loaded .38 automatic. She remembered to press the safety as Neil had instructed her to and held the weapon in front of her, hidden by the counter that separated the main part of the galley from the saloon.
Bart picked up their guns and Michael stood up behind the leather chair. A third man, black, pistol in hand, appeared in the cabin entrance behind Philip and Neil.
“Who in bloody hell are you two?” Michael hissed angrily. He thrust his pistol violently into his belt and crossed to the couch to retrieve his barely touched glass of rum. He glared at Jeanne, not really seeing her. Neil didn’t reply.
The black man behind Neil and Jim spoke: “Okay, mon, you get over against that wall there. Bart, you search them.”
Neil and Philip walked slowly over to the wall on the other side of the main saloon. Bart dropped Philip’s gun onto the couch behind Michael and ambled over to Neil and Philip. Michael and the black man both took their eyes off Jeanne to watch what was about to happen.
She froze. As soon as she spoke and showed her gun they’d turn and shoot her. Three to one. And then Neil and Philip. She was unable to raise her gun.
“They’re clean,” Bart announced after his search.
Michael turned to Jeanne. “Perhaps you had better check the lady too,” he said.
Jeanne stared at him, wide-eyed with fear. As Bart came toward her she reacted instinctively: she crouched and raised her gun to her eye level, aiming it directly at the black man whose pistol was still pointed at Neil.
“Drop it!” she snapped, so sharply it astonished her. Her eyes were wide, hysterical, only her head and the gun barrel were visible above the galley shelf. Bart stopped and all of them watched her, motionless and uncertain.
Then the black man swung his pistol at her and fired, and Jeanne pulled the trigger, the gun jumping in her hand, two shots following one after another in less than half a second. Neil leapt on the man who had shot at her, ripping the gun from his hand, and Jeanne shifted her aim to Michael, who was standing only eight feet away, his hand frozen on the butt of the gun in his belt.
“Don’t shoot!” he screamed.
Neil took Bart’s weapon and stood behind him with two guns, one in each hand. The man who had shot at her had been hit and was sitting on the floor, clutching his shoulder and looking at Jeanne with both surprise and pain, as if she had committed a social faux pas by shooting him. Philip began retrieving the weapons on the couch and the rug.
Michael slowly turned to look at the wounded black man, now slumped back against a chair, at the bewildered look on Bart’s face, at Philip now complacently pointing a .45 straight back at him, and finally at Neil, who was smiling at him tensely.
Finally, slowly, Michael looked back at Jeanne. He stared at her with frank hatred.
“You bloody bitch,” he said quietly. “Are the boobs fake too?”
“I’m afraid that information is classified,” Neil answered, coming up behind Michael to remove the gun from his belt.
“You’d better pray I never get a chance to find out for myself,” Michael said.
Jeanne, feeling safe at last, lowered her gun onto the counter top and leaned against the counter. The big war might be over, but the small wars seemed to be getting worse.
In planning their raids on Mollycoddle and the pirate’s estate Neil and Philip had felt that the storm passing south of them could work to their advantage. Normally the easterly trade winds made it difficult to sail east from the Virgin Islands, but the counterclockwise rotation of the storm system would give them a southerly wind as it moved westward. What they had failed to consider was the unexpected size of the storm and the leisurely pace with which it moved to the west: the waves it was sending northward were huge, much larger than they had anticipated, as was the wind: thirty knots and gusting to forty-five.
Standing with Philip on the dock beside the captured Hatteras, which Olly, Macklin, and Jeanne were busy ransacking for everything of value, Neil could feel doubt and fear blowing through him with the hot wind. Events were moving too fast, involving too many people, too many variables, too many unknowns, to permit him to deal with all that had to be done. The wind and seas were rocking the boats at the dock, and Neil watched the swells rolling into the supposedly protected harbor with increasing anxiety. The noise of halyards and lines beating against masts, the wind whining in the rigging, and the waves slamming against docks and boat hulls were unnerving. As they tried to discuss their plans Philip had almost to shout to make himself heard.
“I don’t like this blow,” he shouted. “I’m not sure we have the time to raid the estate before dark.”
For Neil the initial purpose of the raid—food and weapons—was no longer worth the risk. But there was the question of Katya and Lisa. Neither had been aboard Mollycoddle, and Michael and the others wouldn’t tell them who was at the estate.
“We need food,” Neil replied loudly to Philip. “There’s too damn little on Mollycoddle.” He was watching the waves rolling in at them; at times froth blew off the tops in a horizontal saltwater rain. The Hatteras had already produced two automatic rifles, a small shotgun, four automatics, at least two pounds of marijuana, four bottles of rum, but only a small cache of food. Either Michael and his men bartered for food on a daily basis or their food supply was at the estate.
“I know,” said Philip, “but this wind… I don’t know. Is it worth it? There’s the girl, of course.”
“The girl’s worth it, Phil,” Neil answered grimly, feeling a disturbing lethargy and dread, as if nothing were worth the effort, and as if any enterprise they set off on now were doomed from the outset. “And Lisa might be there too. I know we’re going to have a hell of a time getting out to sea in this, but… I have to go out there. If you want to—”
“No, no. If that’s the case, let’s get on with it.”
So they went ahead. Bart and the wounded black man were tied up in the forepeak of the Hatteras while Michael was to accompany the raiders to the estate. The plan was to use Mollycoddle right up to the last minute to tow Vagabond up over her anchors and get her out of the harbor against the strong winds. Scorpio too would need a tow if she returned; she was already overdue. Neil only hoped that Vagabond didn’t drag anchor before they got back out to her. It was already past four thirty: only two and a half more hours of daylight.
They divided into three groups. Frank and Olly were to barter some of Mollycoddle’s marijuana and surplus weapons and other “useless” valuables for food while Neil’s raiding party went up to the estate. Sheila and Conrad Macklin would remain to guard Mollycoddle and continue to try to make radio contact with Scorpio while waiting for her return. The “raiding party” consisted of just Neil, Philip, and Jeanne with their hostage, Michael. They rode bicycles.
Neil felt frail and vulnerable on a bicycle, and the gusty wind increased his feeling that events were moving too quickly, decisions being made too hastily. He wondered how many officers had led their troops into battle on a bicycle. Although the three others had ten-speed bikes, Neil rode a cumbersome old one-speed and had to labor to keep up with his prisoner. Both of them were periodically blown several feet to one side by a gust of wind.