Le Beau was bent over holding his side. Blood splotched his flight suit everywhere. The Marine jerked the knife from the man’s throat and wiped it on his leg, leaving yet another streak on his filthy flight suit, then slipped it into his sleeve sheath.
“What happened?”
“Guy inside had a knife. He got me good.”
“Let’s saddle up and get the fuck outta here.”
“No. They bought us tickets and we’re taking the ride. Quick, let’s drag this guy out of sight. Grab hold.”
They each took an arm.
“How bad is it?” Jake wanted to know.
“I don’t know. Burns like fire.”
“Can you keep going?”
“We’ll see.” As they dropped the body in a dark aisle, Flap muttered, “Always knew I’d get it with a knife.”
He led the way down a gloomy aisle, almost feeling his way along. “The stuff we want is down here. Fuses and wire. Found it this afternoon.”
They attacked the side of a box with Flap’s throwing knife. The nails ripping loose sounded loud as gunshots.
“How do you know what’s in each box?”
“Seen crates like these before, in Cambodia. This is all Russian stuff. The crates got symbols on them for the comrades who can’t read Russian. Like me.”
The side of the crate came loose. Flap dug into it. He came out with a handful of primers and wire. After a little more digging they extracted a timer.
“Now all we gotta do is find the plastique.”
Jake was horrified. “You don’t know where it is?”
“Couldn’t find it this afternoon.”
“Maybe it’s still on the ship.”
“Maybe. Get out your lighter and look.”
They found a crate with the lid already open. Grenades. Each man stuffed four or five into his chest pocket, then they went on.
Time was dragging. The lighter got hot and flickered. It was about out of butane. Someone was going to come check on the guards any minute now.
Jake was about to give in to despair when they found the plastique. There were at least five crates of it, piled one on top of the other.
“Boost me up,” Flap said.
Lying on top of the crates, Flap pried at the lid of the topmost one with his knife. More groaning noises, as loud as fire sirens. Finally he said, “Okay, pass up the primers and stuff.”
“How long do you want on the timer?”
“Thirty minutes.”
The timer was mechanical. Jake began winding it up as fast as he could. When the spring would go no tighter, he used the lighter. The clock face would take up to a twelve-hour delay. He set thirty minutes, then passed it up to Flap.
Two minutes passed before Flap asked for help to get down. His side was wet with warm blood.
“Those antitank rockets are down this way,” he murmured. He took four steps and fell.
Jake helped him up. “Let’s try to get a bandage on that.”
“With what?”
“Shirt off one of the corpses.”
“We don’t have the time. Come on!”
They took four of the rockets, two for each man. Flap was visibly weaker now, but in the spluttering light of the butane lighter he took the time to explain how to arm, aim and shoot. The lighter died for the last time before they were through and couldn’t be relit. Jake dropped it and slung his rifle over his back. Then he hoisted two of the rockets.
He had to help Flap to his feet. Flap hoisted his two and let the rifle lay. He turned and led the way.
Two steps out of the aisle Flap froze. A figure stood in front of him with a rifle leveled.
The captain!
“You two! I knew you weren’t dead.”
He took a step closer. “You have caused me a great deal of trouble. Now I’m going to cause you a great deal of pain.”
Quick as thought he moved forward and smashed Flap in the head with the butt of his rifle. Flap collapsed.
The captain drove a kick at Jake Grafton that caught him right where his rib was broken. He almost passed out from the pain.
When he came to his senses he was lying almost across Flap. The captain was talking. “Been into the weapons, I see. What else have you done?” He kicked Jake again, but he took the blow mostly on his shoulder.
Jake felt for Flap’s left arm. He found it. The sleeve was loose. The knife came free in his hand.
Another kick. “What have you done in there? Answer me!”
As the foot flashed out again Jake grabbed it and pulled. Off balance, the captain fell. Jake scrambled to his knees and went for him but the man was too quick. He was coming off the ground so Jake slashed with the knife, a vicious, desperate backhand.
The captain staggered back. Through all the kicks he had kept his rifle in his left hand. Now he dropped it and grabbed his stomach with both hands as a shriek of agony escaped him.
His guts spilled out.
The captain fell to the ground. Jake crawled toward him and stabbed, again and again and again.
When the captain went limp Jake slashed at his throat for good measure, then rolled over moaning. He couldn’t breathe. His side!
The captain quivered. In a haze of pain, Jake stabbed the knife into his chest and left it there.
Somehow he got to his feet.
Le Beau seemed only partially conscious. Jake grabbed him by the back of the neck of his flight suit and heaved. The Marine slid about two feet.
Jake needed both hands.
The boat dock. He had to get Flap to the boat.
No way but to drag him.
In a haze of pain, struggling to breathe, he pulled. He paused occasionally to glance over his shoulder, because he was dragging him backward. Right by the lights of the village.
Someone would see him and shoot him.
He didn’t care.
How he made the journey he didn’t know. Flap stirred several times but he didn’t come to.
Finally he had the Marine on the boards of the dock. In a supreme effort he got him over the side of the cabin cruiser onto its deck.
He paused, breathing raggedly, not getting enough air but sucking hard anyway.
Cast off. He had to cast off.
Somehow he remembered the other boats. He got out on the dock and fumbled with their ropes.
The knife! Damn, he had left it sticking in the captain.
He managed to untie all of the ropes except one, which was knotted too tight for his fingers. In his pain and anxiety he forgot all about the second knife that Flap carried.
The ropes for the cabin cruiser came loose easily.
Jake got aboard just as the current began to ease it away from the dock. Those other boats that were free from their moorings were already drifting.
The grenades.
He fumbled in his chest pocket for one. He pulled the pin and held it as the distance increased.
Now.
He let the spoon fly, gritted his teeth and heaved. It hit on the dock, bounced once, then rolled into the moored boat.
Jake sagged down just as it went off.
The noise would bring the pirates. Maybe this would be a good time to see if the engine in this boat can be started.
Fumbling with the switches by the helm, he found the one for the battery. A little light came on. There was a button just beside it. Here goes nothing!
Please, God.
The engine turned over.
He jabbed the button in and held it. Grind, grind, grind as he played with the throttle.
A choke. Maybe there was a choke. Desperately he felt around the panel.
He found it and pulled it out. The engine ground several more times, then caught. He inched the throttle forward from idle and spun the helm.
He had the boat headed downriver when the first bullets thudded in.
One man shooting. No, two.
He hunkered by the wheel and fed in full throttle.
The boat accelerated nicely. He slewed it and craned his head to see. The banks of the river were even darker than the water.