men tumbling, screaming, falling back into the boat or into the water. As the ladder cleared, he grabbed the hook and tossed it over the side.
Better-targeted gunfire poured up at him, and he ducked and scrambled a few feet to the left before standing again and aiming down at the boat below him. He took his time to pick targets. There were four men in a large motor launch. He took out the one at the wheel first, one shot, then took three shots to get the next one. Shit, he had to do better than that.
“Shoot the fucking engine!”
He almost jumped out of his skin at Bren’s voice right beside him. She was gone before Cal could answer, running across the deck, shouting orders at the defenders. Some of the noncombatants ran around handing out ammunition to the soldiers at the rails. Inez dropped a box of rifle clips at Cal’s feet and ran on before he could thank her.
Cal turned back around and fired at the small boat’s outboard. He didn’t trust his marksmanship enough to get it in one, so he sprayed a burst at it until his rifle clicked empty. The outboard exploded, and the two men still alive on the boat leaped into the water to escape the black smoke and the fire.
Cal sank to one knee, legs almost giving out. Where was Mitch? He must be in charge of the defenders on one of the other sides of the rig. Was he okay? What if he was hurt? Dead? Shit, where was he? He sucked in deep breaths and tried to get his pounding heart under control. This brief lull, nobody to shoot at that precise moment, gave him the time to be scared. Gunfire rattled all around him, voices shouted orders, from up here on deck and below. There was no panic, though. The only one he feared might panic was him.
No. Must not panic. Must not be a pussy, while these little fucking girls did the fighting. While these manicurists and waitresses and cashiers defended the rig. He took a breath and rose again, looking for the next target. As he stood he heard a whooshing sound and Bren’s yell.
“RPG! Get down!”
Too late. The explosion threw him against the railing, and for a second he feared he’d go over. But he flung himself away from the railing to the deck, hiding his eyes from the flames shooting up from the rig’s superstructure. What had they hit? Was anyone still in there? Where had the noncombatants gone? Were they safe? The kids? Where was Mitch?
“Fire-control teams with me!” Bren ran past, gathering up the “civilians” who’d been handing out ammo. “Rest of you, return fire! Return fire!”
Discipline! Cal made himself turn away from the blaze and back to his position. Bren’s team was handling it. There were more boats down there. He aimed, and the rifle clicked empty. Fuck . He ejected the empty clip and slapped in the spare. Pick your targets. Aim. Target the engines on the outboards. Target the guy at the wheel on the larger boats . Cal fired and fired and fired.
* * * *
The gray dawn light showed up the damage clearly. A good quarter of the working level of the superstructure was gone, either torn apart or gutted by fire. Mitch thanked God this place had such good fire equipment, or they’d have been diving off the rig into the water before the night had ended. They had a few minor injuries to people caught by debris on deck, but all the noncombatants had been safe in the shelter.
He emerged from checking the damage, and the first thing he saw was Cal, sitting among the other soldiers on deck, all of them smoke-blackened and exhausted. Inez, Ella, and Dolores were handing around food and water bottles to the troops. Bren was standing at the rail, looking out to sea. No, looking toward the shore, though it was too far away to be visible. The shore where the enemy had finally retreated to.
He was torn. Go to her, or go to Cal? The new, intimate connection he’d forged with Cal warred with the old, deep connection he had with her—one born of saving each other’s lives and guarding each other’s sleep. In the
Better-targeted gunfire poured up at him, and he ducked and scrambled a few feet to the left before standing again and aiming down at the boat below him. He took his time to pick targets. There were four men in a large motor launch. He took out the one at the wheel first, one shot, then took three shots to get the next one. Shit, he had to do better than that.
“Shoot the fucking engine!”
He almost jumped out of his skin at Bren’s voice right beside him. She was gone before Cal could answer, running across the deck, shouting orders at the defenders. Some of the noncombatants ran around handing out ammunition to the soldiers at the rails. Inez dropped a box of rifle clips at Cal’s feet and ran on before he could thank her.
Cal turned back around and fired at the small boat’s outboard. He didn’t trust his marksmanship enough to get it in one, so he sprayed a burst at it until his rifle clicked empty. The outboard exploded, and the two men still alive on the boat leaped into the water to escape the black smoke and the fire.
Cal sank to one knee, legs almost giving out. Where was Mitch? He must be in charge of the defenders on one of the other sides of the rig. Was he okay? What if he was hurt? Dead? Shit, where was he? He sucked in deep breaths and tried to get his pounding heart under control. This brief lull, nobody to shoot at that precise moment, gave him the time to be scared. Gunfire rattled all around him, voices shouted orders, from up here on deck and below. There was no panic, though. The only one he feared might panic was him.
No. Must not panic. Must not be a pussy, while these little fucking girls did the fighting. While these manicurists and waitresses and cashiers defended the rig. He took a breath and rose again, looking for the next target. As he stood he heard a whooshing sound and Bren’s yell.
“RPG! Get down!”
Too late. The explosion threw him against the railing, and for a second he feared he’d go over. But he flung himself away from the railing to the deck, hiding his eyes from the flames shooting up from the rig’s superstructure. What had they hit? Was anyone still in there? Where had the noncombatants gone? Were they safe? The kids? Where was Mitch?
“Fire-control teams with me!” Bren ran past, gathering up the “civilians” who’d been handing out ammo. “Rest of you, return fire! Return fire!”
Discipline! Cal made himself turn away from the blaze and back to his position. Bren’s team was handling it. There were more boats down there. He aimed, and the rifle clicked empty. Fuck . He ejected the empty clip and slapped in the spare. Pick your targets. Aim. Target the engines on the outboards. Target the guy at the wheel on the larger boats . Cal fired and fired and fired.
* * * *
The gray dawn light showed up the damage clearly. A good quarter of the working level of the superstructure was gone, either torn apart or gutted by fire. Mitch thanked God this place had such good fire equipment, or they’d have been diving off the rig into the water before the night had ended. They had a few minor injuries to people caught by debris on deck, but all the noncombatants had been safe in the shelter.
He emerged from checking the damage, and the first thing he saw was Cal, sitting among the other soldiers on deck, all of them smoke-blackened and exhausted. Inez, Ella, and Dolores were handing around food and water bottles to the troops. Bren was standing at the rail, looking out to sea. No, looking toward the shore, though it was too far away to be visible. The shore where the enemy had finally retreated to.
He was torn. Go to her, or go to Cal? The new, intimate connection he’d forged with Cal warred with the old, deep connection he had with her—one born of saving each other’s lives and guarding each other’s sleep. In the
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