The Trinidad hovered high over the jungle as the Concepción slowly emerged below, rising from the ragged cenote. Braddock leaned on the rail of the Trinidad’s swaying deck, Hugo next to her, watching the smaller ship rise into the sunny jungle. As soon as it was safely clear of the ground, Braddock told their pilot to head for the Victoria.
The helicopter started west, out over the bright blue sea, the carrack creaking and swaying in the massive slings that cradled her. The men on the deck laughed and shouted, and Braddock found herself grinning, too. The ships were holding together beautifully, the sun was hot and bright, and she could already see the Victoria, anchored off Demar’s southwest corner.
She should be anchored by now. Braddock spoke into her radio. “Victoria, this is Trinidad, are you ready to receive, over?”
Instead of a verbal response, a Aare shot up off the deck of the cargo ship, etching a brilliant line through the blue sky.
“This is it, Hugo,” Braddock said. Scotty had elected to ride in the helicopter overhead, but she knew he was grinning, too. Now that it was final, she could embrace the accomplishment. “It’s ours. All of it.”
* * *
Nate threw the hatch open and they climbed out, ready to start slashing, but the mercs were still at the railings, gazing out at the passing trees, wearing dumb, wondering grins. There was a tall, thin guy just in front of them, past a trio of loose cannonballs, maybe six-pounders…
I don’t wanna start out stabbing, Nate thought, already stepping in. He scooped up one of the heavy shots, swinging it at tall guy’s head just as he turned to see what was coming.
Wham, and over the railing the man toppled, shouting and cursing as he hit the ground, now farther away as the copter lifted into the canopy.
Nate turned and there was another guy right behind him, stocky, fist drawn back to hammer him—
—and Sully blindsided the would-be puncher with the full weight of his backpack behind his rush, seams straining against the heavy load. The big guy sailed over the railing.
Two down, but the other mercs were looking now, dropping their oars and scrambling to defense.
“You were in the Navy, any pointers?” Nate asked.
“Yeah, don’t die,” Sully answered, dropping his bag, and they both charged out, slashing and stabbing.
Nate kicked over a barrel, aiming for one of the mercs’ legs, and knocked a riAe out of a redhead’s hands with his sword, the ship high over the sea now, creaking westward. Nate grabbed the mainmast’s rigging, an ancient drape of thick net hanging to the deck, and swung past the shocked redhead, the half- rotten ropes slimy in his hands. He dropkicked into Barrel Guy, who slammed into the rail and then through it, screaming all the way down.
The wind whistled past, the heavy thunder of the helicopter blasting down at them. Nate stumbled into Red’s charge at Sully, who’d bloodied somebody and was reaching for a dropped gun—
Nate lowered his weight and kicked, knocking Red sideways. The guy bounced into the rail but didn’t go over.
Sully’s bag was a few feet in front of him. Nate grabbed the padded straps, swung it up and around—
—and Sully grabbed the pack, long enough for Red to tackle Nate, throwing him against the creaking, splintering rail.
* * *
Sully smashed into the shoulder of a guy with a watch cap and then rushed a sneering mountain of a man with a Glock, getting in close enough to whack at his arm. The thug dropped his semi and swung wildly at Sully, cracking him a good one on the bicep, hard enough to make his arm go numb.
Sully whipped the club back and forth, backing the guy up—and Guy stepped on a free-rolling cannonball and fell into the rail. Sully let go of the gold bat and bum-rushed him. Drop your weight and lift—
The big man went up and out, as intended, the splash of his landing lost to the copter’s roar.
Sully went for the discarded Glock, looking up just in time to see Nate kick a charging merc off course. Another second and Sully would have been run down. The kid stumbled forward and picked up Sully’s backpack—
MY GOLD! Sully didn’t think, only grabbed for the pack mid-swing, and then Nate was knocked off his feet by the merc, cracking into the top rail.
Oh hell, he realized, and swung the bag at the merc’s sunburnt neck, not liking the way the leather stretched at all. Nate saw it coming and dropped, the merc bowled right over the rail and into the air, dropping like a rock.
Sully looked around the empty deck, long boards glowing under the strong light of day. A lot of knocked-over crates, a little blood… One of the ties on the mizzenmast had popped loose; its topsail hung in stained tatters over the helm, Aapping in the pulse of air.
Nate stood up, breathing heavily. “You gotta hijack that helicopter.”
Sully looked up at the Halo. The giant chains up top weren’t actually that far from the mainmast’s upper platform. If he could tip the mast just a little…
Forget it, there’s no parachute this time. “I haven’t Aown in years,” Sully said.
“How bad do you want the gold?” Nate asked.
Oh, so bad. Sully couldn’t even begin to express it. He could see the Trinidad off in the distance ahead of them, sailing through the cloudless blue. Braddock had her ship, why shouldn’t he have his?
Our ship, he corrected himself. The kid had set the terms, fifty-fifty, and Sully had accepted. Except then Nate had figured everything out on his own. Sully’d just followed him to the prize. And the kid couldn’t Ay a helicopter.
Nobody said you weren’t gonna have to work for it. And you’d better get going.
Sully popped the Aap on his pack’s outer pocket, pulled out the earpieces in their little Aat case. Third time’s a charm. He handed one to Nate, slipped the other into his ear after checking to make sure the light was on. He’d re-read the instructions in Jakarta.
“You know the drill,” he said, and centered the pack across his back. He was strong, still lifted when he got to the gym, but it was gonna be a drag trying to make it to the Halo. And the mainmast looked so impossibly tall…
Go already, Braddock’ll land before you make it halfway!
Sully grabbed the ropes and started up, reaching for hand and footholds that had been sitting in a cave for five goddamn centuries—
“Hey, Sully,” Nate called, and Sully looked back. The kid’s expression was somber, sincere.
“Don’t crash,” Nate said.
“Thanks for the positive reinforcement,” Sully muttered, and started climbing again.
* * *
Sully headed up the mainmast, strong but gasping after ten feet with that pack on his back. Nate would have dropped it, but Sully was nuts.
We all go a little mad sometimes, he thought, and turned around on the sailing ship, gently gliding south now, high over the sea where it had once labored. Helicopter air pulsed over the creaking deck. He picked up the cutlass and headed for the sterncastle, climbing a sturdy oak ladder to the helm.
The mizzenmast came up through the deck, the massive, ancient wheel just between it and the poop. There was an actual capstan in front of the cabin door, a thick vertical log with wooden spokes coming off the sides. The sailors would turn it to bring up the anchor.
Nate put down the sword and stepped to the helm, resting his hands on the rounded handles, ten and two. One of the lower sails had dropped and it whistled in the wind, tatters Aapping overhead. He looked out across the trembling ship, the volcano portside of her, the endless water starboard.
Eastward there was a chain of rocky islands, the ones he’d sent Chloe to plunder. Nate squinted past the volcano. He saw some distant dark shapes against the crystal blue. It was hard to tell, the sun off the water was blinding.
“Sully, I think we can lose them if we head left, into those islands.”
Nate looked up, saw that Sully was maybe seventy feet over the deck. Pretty fast, for an old guy. The rickety-looking crow’s nest was another twenty past that, but it was framed by the giant chains hooked to the helicopter. The pair on the left ran right past the top of the mast and clipped to the copter high above—another twenty feet? Thirty? Nate couldn’t tell from the deck.
“Port side,” Sully gasped. “Islands. Got it.”
“All hands on deck!” Nate cried, and turned the wheel. It groaned but obeyed. “Raise anchor and hoist the mainsail! Prepare to come about, we’re underway!”
“Hey, king of the world,” Sully gasped. “Stay sharp!”
“Oh, come on man, I’m just having a little fun,” Nate said, and turned the wheel again. He could feel tension from unseen connections, probably brittle with age. Was the rudder shifting? How cool is this? He wracked his brain for more sailing terms, but could only remember orlop, which wasn’t awesome to yell. Man the yardarms?
Sully had reached the crow’s nest. He climbed into it, gasping, stretching one hand toward the nearest chain. The gap was maybe ten feet. If he could get up to the very top of the mast, the gap was half that—
An injured merc stumbled out onto the deck below, holding a cutlass. He wore a cap—in this weather?—and snarled when he saw Nate at the helm.
Nate grabbed his own cutlass and jumped down, wishing they’d counted mercs before declaring victory.
* * *
The climb was a nightmare. Sully had to stand on the rickety, rotten rail of the uppermost platform and leap for the nearest chain, which he almost fucking missed because his backpack was so heavy. Sully wrapped himself around the cold metal, took a deep breath, and started climbing. The links made good rungs and there were a lot of them, plenty to grip.
Overhead, the chains were hooked to a wide, round white plate four feet across, and past that was the drop ladder on the Halo, half-shielded by curves of rigid steel. Straight up into the cabin-slash-cockpit.
Sully dug deep to push himself over the plate, the wind and the roar of the helicopter blasting his ears, pulling at his clothes. He crawled to his knees on the white-painted steel, touched the bottom rungs of the ladder and stood, panting. He pulled himself up into the copter on numb fingers.
The pilots were the only people he saw, climbing on deck. Sully immediately tackled the co-pilot, pushing him out of his chair and against the door. He reached around and popped the door release.
Out went the co-pilot. The pilot was bringing up a gun—
Sully blocked the move, hammering the pilot’s wrist. The weapon clattered to the Aoor, and the copter took a dive.
* * *
The merc was putting up a fight but he was wearing out fast, his swipes getting clumsier. He had blood on his shoulder, and dribbling out from under his hat. Nate leaped back, thrilling at the clash of the blades—
—and then they were both pitched Aat, and falling.
“Sully? Sully!” Nate looked up in horror at the rapidly descending helicopter above, chains and cables bunching—and saw a guy falling out of one side, and then the massive machine swooped upward.
Nate and the behatted merc were both tossed like jacks. The cables strained, there was a mighty shrieking sound, and then the deck slammed up from below, a thousand boards protesting at the sudden loss in momentum. The Concepción surged forward, the copter swinging them back over Demar, headed east.
* * *
Sully threw the shouting, beer-bellied pilot out and jumped into the seat, grabbing the stick.
“Alright Victor, you got this,” he said, and did his best to turn their fall into a swoop.
“Shit! When did they add all of these buttons?” he muttered. The cyclic was the same but the pitch was different, the handle all wrong. He tapped his feet on the pedals that controlled the back rotor. A few bobbles, but then he got the fat bird turned in the right direction, more or less. He started forward, staying just ahead of the carrack’s bulk. Faster than was probably recommended for the old wood below, but he was kind of in a hurry. They needed to be far from Jo Braddock, as soon as possible.
Sully sat the captain’s pistol on the co-pilot’s seat, next to his gold-stuffed backpack, and put on the pilot’s headset. The controls were starting to feel familiar. The console was way more complicated, though, and there seemed to be an extra pedal…
You’ll get the hang of it. Sully grinned. The Concepción was officially theirs.