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Valentine took one long stride and launched off his good leg, giving up on the wrench for now. He went over the gun and managed a head tackle, spilling them both into the boat to the sound of cartilage snapping.
"What the hell," the other anchor watch said, from the dim light of the armored wheelhouse.
Valentine managed to free the wrench, rose, and struck as the other drew his pistol.
And struck again. This one was even wetter.
Now he had a bloody wrench and a Browning-model 9mm automatic.
The anchor watch at the stern gun was being held up by the machine gun's steel harness. "Fuuuck! I'm-yak! I'm hit, Grantski," he wretched. "Somebod-yak! Put an arrow in myak!"
Valentine heard shooting up the riverbank. Gamecock's Bears must be at the wire.
Red, white, and blue lights flashed on the attention bar of the patrol craft. A siren sounded.
Valentine saw the other anchor watch peering from the armored cabin. He didn't want to chance running out for the stern mount, it seemed, not with his fellow sailor screaming out his bloody death throes.
"Better hit the river, you," Valentine called to the other boat. "That's Southern Command come calling."
The man he'd knocked out of the gun groaned and moved. Valentine tested the Browning model on him. It worked.
The anchor watch at the other boat's gun slumped out of his harness. Valentine saw two dark patches on his white shirt. He hadn't missed after all.
"Don't you shoot, I'm leaving," the man in the wheelhouse said. He scuttled up a ladder to the flying bridge, butt and head tucked, and used the first two rungs to throw himself into the river.
Lights appeared around the bend in the downstream Tennessee. Another River Patrol craft was coming in, hot and ready for action.
Valentine went to the wheelhouse of the vacated boat, the one with the lights flashing. It was a smaller boat approaching, no flying bridge but what looked like a big damn multibarreled gun in front of the wheelhouse. Two oval ammo drums hung off it like testicles.
Probably a crew of three.
Valentine waited. It approached the dock, slowing, those gun barrels aimed up the riverbank, where Valentine saw scattered gun flashes. The Bears were sensibly using single shots. Nothing drew fire like long bursts of automatic.
Valentine was busy looking at the boat's spotlight. Seemed simple to operate, a smaller version of the cannon he'd known on the old Thunderbolt in the Gulf.
"For fuck's sake, they're in the gun emplacement on the hill," he shouted to the other boat. "Lay down some fire on it or they'll blow you out of the water."
That didn't work. The gunner wouldn't be goaded into firing.
He lit up the other boat, zeroed the spotlight in on the gunner. A face gleamed whitely before it threw up an arm to ward off the blinding light. Valentine tightened the spotlight beam as best as he could and then ran to the gun mount. He was chambering the first round of the belt when another spotlight struck, blinding him and shooting white pain through his head.
Here it comes.
Blindly, Valentine fell backward out of the boat and into the Tennessee. Bullets ripped up the cabin of the craft, killing the spotlight, then clanging off and through the armored shield on the rear mount.
His head broke water behind the bulk of the tied-up boat.
Fire poured down from the gun emplacement. Valentine saw two of Gamecock's Bears, faces full of war paint and toothy helmets on, lighting the night with tracer from their miniguns. He could see the brass casings dancing off into the night.
The boat swerved, headed for shore, the man at the wheel dead.
Valentine raised the Browning knockoff, pointed it at a bleeding crewman who was attempting to return to his feet.
"Okay, riverman, this is either the luckiest day of your life or the unluckiest. Take your pick."
The scuffed-up river patroller decided to be lucky.
"That's why I'm on the water. Can't stand them hissing no-dicks," he said, cheerfully taking the oath that would swear him into the battalion after hearing the terms.
