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A fresh squall hit, riding a cold wind, and they were suddenly alone again on a seemingly empty sea. The squalls passed, and they could see for two or three miles that they were still alone except for a single big ship on a course similar to theirs, angling toward New York. They overtook it quickly.
“That’s her,” said Pauline.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. I saw her in Bremerhaven.”
41
THE TANKER Sandra T. Congdon had a tall funne
l in back, a sturdy white wheelhouse forward of center, and a straight bow.
“What’s that on the bow?”
“A three-inch gun,” said Pauline. “Left over from the war.”
Bell studied it in the binoculars. “Not that left over. They’ve got a heap of ammunition all ready to shoot. Pity the Harbor Squad that runs into them. Ed, keep us behind their house.”
Tobin altered course, as they caught up with the tanker, so that its wheelhouse blocked the deck gun’s line of fire.
“What are those guys on top doing?” asked Asa.
Bell focused his glasses on a wood-and-canvas flying bridge constructed on top of the wheelhouse.
“Unlimbering a Lewis gun,” he said. “Get your heads down.”
Machine-gun bullets screeched overhead and frothed the water. Tobin cut in the reserve engine and hit his throttles. A minute later, they were a half mile behind the tanker, beyond effective range of its machine gun.
Isaac Bell broke into an icy smile.
“Look who’s here . . . I’ll take the helm, Ed.”
Black Bird slid out from behind the tanker and sped at them, hurling spray.
Bell fired orders. “Pauline, down! Asa, foredeck gun! Tobin, stern!”
The two boats raced at each other at a combined velocity of one hundred miles an hour. Ed Tobin fired a long burst from the forward Lewis gun. Black Bird shot back. But a black boat proved a much better target than one painted as gray as rain.
Geysers of bullet-pocked water splashed around Marion.
Lead banged into Black Bird’s armor and crazed her windshield. Her gunner was blown from his weapon and pinwheeled backwards into the sea.
Another leaped to his place.
Less than fifty yards separated the speeding boats, and the new gunner could not have missed even if the Van Dorn boat had been invisible. Bell felt the slugs rattling off the armor plate. The man fired again. Bullets cut the air inches above his head. The boats hurtled past each other, missing by inches.
Asa Somers triggered the stern Lewis, raking Black Bird’s cockpit. All three men in it fell to the sole. Only one regained his feet: Marat Zolner.
Bell saw him twirl his helm and ram his throttles in a single swift motion. But nothing happened. The black boat did not answer her helm. Nor did she speed away, but fell back in the seas, barely drifting ahead.
“Good shooting, Asa!”
The young apprentice had blasted Zolner’s controls to pieces.
Zolner jumped from the cockpit to the Lewis gun, ripped off the ammunition drum, and banged a full one into place. He tracked the Van Dorn boat, which was circling for the kill, and fired a burst.
Isaac Bell saw what appeared to be tracer bullets, trailing blue smoke. But when Zolner got the range, which he did on his third burst, raking Marion just ahead of the engines, smoke curled from the bullet holes. Marat Zolner was firing World War balloon-busting incendiary ammunition. Each phosphorus bullet laced the Van Dorn hull with flame, and the boat was suddenly on fire.
