Warbirds of Mars: Stories of the Fight! Read online

  The water was cool, but not as cold as it might have been—if you had to take a swim, better the South China Sea than the North Atlantic—and Jack clung to a section of the Mosquito’s wooden fuselage as he paddled toward land. After a few hours, and two shark sightings, he was exhausted, chilled to the bone, and fighting to stay awake.

  When he saw the boat appear on the horizon, he couldn’t be sure if it was real or a hallucination. He was torn between wanting to flag it down and wanting to submerge himself, to remain unseen. He could use a lift to shore, but in these waters there was no way to tell if the boat held friends or foes. And there were, no doubt, more of the latter around than the former.

  In the end, the decision was taken out of his hands. Someone in the boat saw him in the water—or more likely, saw something floating and wanted to check it out, to see if it was worth salvaging—and the boat made a course correction and came straight toward him. By that point he was too tired to try to outrun them. His gun had been lost in the drink, but he had a knife strapped to his ankle, so he could fight if he had to. After what seemed like two lifetimes, the boat came near enough for him to make out those on board. Chinese peasants, he thought. Fishermen. He didn’t speak much Chinese, but he greeted them in as friendly a fashion as he could, and was met by a burst of unintelligible chatter.

  They hauled him aboard, clearly recognizing that he was an American and understanding—after a pathetic display of sign language and pantomime on his part—that he had fallen from the sky. The boat smelled like their catch, which jammed the small hold and was piled on every available surface. Most of the fishermen were smoking cigarettes, and Jack understood the impulse—the smell of the tobacco, so close to their noses, would help mask the fishy stench.

  In this way, surrounded by hard-working Chinese men he could only sometimes communicate with, napping with his back against a pile of occasionally squirming seafood, Jack made his way to the mainland. He had no clue what he would do when he got there, but if at all possible, a hot bath seemed like a good place to start.

  When they reached the mainland, instead of putting in at once, they headed up the Ou River. Jack had a pretty good sense of geography, and was able to remember about where the river was, north of Hong Kong and south of Shanghai and Ningbo, where he had planned to rendezvous with Nicky. Traffic on the river was thick, and Jack tried to stay out of sight.

  The lights of Wenzhou were burning in the near distance when the fishermen started speaking in low tones and casting anxious glances at their passenger. Jack could tell the tension on the boat had skyrocketed, but he didn’t know why until he dared to raise his head above the rail and look over.

  A junk bore down on them, cutting off smaller boats in its path. There seemed to be no mistaking its target. The thing looked like a relic of ancient China, with its yellowed, ribbed sails and its sleek wooden hull forming a point at the bow, but it negotiated the river traffic with ease. The fishermen told Jack to hide, but short of burying himself in fish, there was nowhere to go.

  When the junk arrived, its collision with the fishing boat was surprisingly gentle. The impact jostled the smaller craft, sending it rocking, but not capsizing it or knocking anyone overboard. The fishermen shouted at those on the junk, berating their piloting skills. The men on the junk shouted back. Jack understood the attitudes if not the words, but he thought the men on the junk had done exactly what they’d intended.

  Other boats skimmed past, the people on them staring at the confrontation, but nobody moved to interfere. And although the men from the junk tried—at first—to hide their interest, their gazes continually landed on him. That was not necessarily surprising—a white man in a flight suit on a Chinese fishing boat was far from commonplace. It was, in fact, the efforts not to look his way that convinced Jack that he had been their target all along. Anyone else would have flatly stared.

  After a few minutes of back and forth verbal pyrotechnics, all pretense faded away and the men from the junk made their intentions known. One who seemed to be a leader—a huge man with massive arms splitting his sleeves and a thin, patchy beard clinging to his chin—whipped a sword from his belt, roared a few words in Chinese, and pointed the weapon directly at Jack.

  The confrontation was over at that point, and Jack knew it. His hosts had been generous, rescuing him from the ocean and bringing him to land, or nearly so. But they had nothing invested in him, no reason to protect him other than simple kindness. The men on the junk wanted him, and they made clear their intentions. Jack didn’t want to see anyone hurt on his behalf, especially since the fishermen were armed only with knives, and the others had swords and guns.

  Jack raised his hands to shoulder height. “Okay,” he said in English. “I’ll go with you.”

  One of the fishermen grabbed Jack’s left arm. He said something in Chinese, speaking low and quickly. Jack only caught a little of it, something about a dragon’s daughter.

  That was all he needed to hear. The Dragon’s Daughter was notorious, and Jack had heard about her for years. Her pirate crews sailed the China Sea, looting and murdering at will, and no authorities had been able to rein them in, if they had even tried. From the reports he’d seen, she took advantage of the chaos of the Sino-Japanese War and the Martian invasion—with bigger problems on its hands, China had few resources to throw at a comparatively small nuisance.

  At the moment, though, he wouldn’t have minded if a platoon of Chinese soldiers happened to show up.

  “I’ll be all right,” he told the fisherman. The man looked at him, frowning, not understanding the words but getting the tone anyway. A few others tried to hold him back, but Jack shook them off.

  The pirates waited for him, scowling, and when he stepped up to their vessel they grabbed him and hauled him aboard roughly. They searched him and took away his knife, then shoved and poked with sharp blades, directing him to a sumptuous inner cabin. He thought for a moment that he was about to meet the Dragon’s Daughter herself. But there was no woman in the cabin, just a tall, lean man with his black hair pulled back into a long ponytail, and a mustache that drooped past his chin. He sat at an ornate table, writing something in a thick book with a large pen, an open inkwell before him. A hanging censer behind him leaked spice-scented smoke. The big man with the sword had led Jack in, and now he spoke a single word. The man at the table looked up, taking Jack in with fierce eyes.

  “Welcome, Mr. Paris,” he said. His English was heavily accented, but understandable.

  Jack tried to conceal his surprise. “You were expecting me?”

  “Of course,” the man said. “The Dragon’s Daughter knows everything that happens around here.”

  “Must keep her busy.”

  “She does not object to being busy.”

  “Sounds like an impressive lady. I’d love to meet her. She here?”

  “You will, soon enough.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  The man said something to the big guy, who grunted an objection but left the room. He closed the door behind him.

  Jack sized up the guy at the table. He had a stringy muscularity, but Jack thought he could take the man.

  On the other hand, there was a gun on the table, and on the other side of the door was a ship full of pirates. If he played along, he would be taken to the Dragon’s Daughter, who had apparently known he was coming even before he did.

  Considering he had no idea how he would find Nicky at this point, he figured he might as well go for a ride.

  The man finished what he was writing in the big book, blotted the page, and closed it. He capped the inkwell and waved toward a kind of chaise, covered with silken pillows, across the cabin. “Sit, Mr. Paris. We have a long trip ahead of us.”

  “Will I be spending it all in here?”

  “This is my cabin. I believe you would prefer it to our brig, which is…primitive, at best.”

  “Probably, then. Where are we headed?”

  The man actually stroked his must
ache. Jack had thought that only happened in the funny pages. “In due time, Mr. Paris. You must have patience.”

  “You gonna hit me with a Confucius quote now? Patience is the virtue of the tiger, or something like that?”

  The man chuckled. “We are modern people, Mr. Paris,” he said. “I studied at Oxford for three years. Even this ship, our junk—it looks traditional, but in a pinch we have two state-of-the-art diesel engines we can call on. First impressions, Mr. Paris, can be deceiving. That is not Confucius, but it’s true just the same.”

  Jack took advantage of his invitation and sat on the chaise. The cabin was comfortable, even luxurious, with silk brocade behind the large bed, long curtains over big square windows that couldn’t be classified as portholes, and thick carpeting underfoot. The carpet didn’t seem Chinese to Paris, but he supposed it was better than bare wooden decks, especially to barefoot pirates.

  “What’s the Dragon’s Daughter want with me?” he asked. “I’m nobody.”

  “You’re far too modest, Mr. Paris. Your reputation precedes you.”

  “You’ve got the advantage, I guess. What do I call you?”

  He did the mustache thing again. “You may call me Chen.”

  “That’s your name? Chen?”

  “That’s something you may call me, if you need to call me something.”

  It looked like that was all he’d get. Chen, or whoever he was, played his cards close to his vest. The inscrutable Oriental was as much of a stereotype as the Confucius-quoting wise man, Jack figured, but Chen had mastered inscrutability.

  After a few other failed attempts at interrogation, Chen left him alone in the cabin, warning that he would return shortly. As soon as he was out the door, Jack rose and crossed to the windows. They were heading south, with the coastline in view off the starboard side. They were making good time, and from the sound of the wind billowing the sails they were doing it without the engines. The surf was a little rough, but not too bad. He went to the port side windows and looked out at dark clouds marching toward them. An approaching squall, he guessed; that surf would not stay smooth for long.

  An hour passed. Jack took a quick nap. He had been in combat enough to know that you slept when you could, because any moment of sleep could be your last for hours or days. At some point Chen and the big man came back in, checked on him, then left again, locking the cabin door behind them. Jack left the chaise and moved quietly to the door. Peering out through a slight crack at the jamb, he saw that the big man had been left behind, sitting on a chair just outside the door.

  Outside, the wind was lashing the ship so hard that the sails had been furled. The engines chugged along and they continued on their southerly heading, but the waves were kicking up and the junk rose up and then slammed back down with every swell. Even Jack, who had flown for years, was starting to feel a little motion sickness. He went back to the starboard window. The lights upon the coastline appeared more distant, but he realized that was just illusion. They were closer than ever—the junk was on a course that brought them nearer to shore, it was just that the few lights in this sparsely populated stretch were almost invisible through sheets of driving rain.

  The move made sense. The squall was obviously a major storm, and conditions would get worse before they improved again. The junk was fine for rivers and along the coast, but even with its improvements, it wasn’t really built as an ocean-going vessel. They would try to find a protected cove or bay in which to ride out the storm.

  The closer to shore they got, the worse the weather grew. The swells created deep canyons; with each one they fell into, the craft felt like it was falling apart. Jack could hear the cries and shouts of pirates on deck, trying to stay on course. Punishing rain hammered against the windows and hull, the wind howled nonstop, and overhead thunder pealed. Flashes of lightning lit the dark water and left afterimages on Jack’s eyes.

  He went back to the door and took another peek through the crack. The big man was still there, but he looked a little green, and he had given up trying to sit. The chair skated from side to side as the junk tipped this way and that.

  Jack doubted that he would get a better chance. Everybody was on deck trying to get the craft someplace safe. The big man probably wouldn’t hear anything over the sounds of the storm and the racket from the deck. And although the sea was treacherous, they were close enough to the coast that he knew he could make the swim. Even if someone saw him, they couldn’t launch a small boat in this weather, and by the time they were able to reach someplace they could tie up, he would be long gone.

  The ship caught another swell and rode it up, bow pointing toward the sky, then dropped again with a thunderous crash. Jack seized the moment and kicked out the starboard window. He could barely hear the splintering wood and tinkle of falling glass over the roar of the weather. Without hesitation, he propelled himself through the window and into the raging surf. As he swam toward shore, he heard a change in the tone of the pirates on deck, and glanced back once. They’d already spotted him.

  He put his head down and made for land, knowing that it wouldn’t matter.

  Fifteen minutes later, Jack felt sand under his boots. He found his feet and walked in the rest of the way, panting from the exertion of the difficult swim. The lights of the junk were still well back, not far from where he had left it, despite the efforts of the pirates to follow. He crossed a thin stretch of rocky beach and climbed a rise at its far side, dotted with bristly grass. There, he allowed himself to sit, to recover a little. Rain pelted him and wind tore at his soaked uniform.

  He considered his situation. He had escaped from the pirates, but he didn’t know where he was. Somewhere in China, along the coast. North of Hong Kong, probably by a good distance. He didn’t look Chinese, he didn’t speak Chinese, and he had no way to contact Nicky Hawkins.

  He was, to understate the case, in trouble.

  It wasn’t the first time, though, and he doubted it would be the last.

  He was still contemplating the situation when he heard shouts from the water. He could still see the junk, barely, through the screen of rain, but these voices were much closer.

  Then he saw the pirates, what looked like a dozen of them, splashing through the rushing surf. One had already reached the shallows and was wading in. A lightning flash sent reflected light from his sword in jagged splinters.

  Jack didn’t think they had seen him sitting amidst the tall grasses at the upper edge of the beach. But sunrise wasn’t far off. Already the eastern horizon was tinged with gray, and the severity of the storm lessened with every passing minute. Jack had to move before he lost whatever advantage darkness and weather offered. Staying low, he worked his way back from the ridge. When he was completely shielded from the beach, on a sandy slope, with small houses scattered fifty yards or so behind him, he started to run. He wasn’t worried yet; he was, so far as he knew, in the clear, so he set out at a steady jog, picking a pace he could maintain for hours if need be.

  He passed between the first two houses. Beyond them was a narrow gravel road that led past more of the same and into what looked like a little village. There were lights there, and presumably, people. Most were probably staying inside, out of the weather, but that didn’t mean Jack wanted to take the chance. Instead of continuing that way, he hooked to the right, running behind the first line of houses rather than following the road.

  He was less than a half-mile down, he judged, when he heard gunshots.

  Bullets whizzed past him and spat into the rain-soaked earth. Jack spun around and found the source: a grizzled Chinese man standing in the rain outside his home, holding a rifle that looked at least as old as him. The Chinese had invented gunpowder; this might have been the first gun that used it.

  But the thing had been loud, its cracks breaking through even the storm’s noise. The pirates had to have heard it. Jack wished again that he knew Chinese better, so he could tell if they’d seen him or were just reacting to the gunshots. Either way, they
were coming toward him, and fast. He could take the old man’s gun, but it would probably be more effective as a club than a firearm.

  He kept running, making toward a copse of trees that loomed up out of the darkness. If it was thick enough, maybe he could lose them in there. If he could split them up, he could take them on one by one, maybe get his hands on a weapon and even the odds.

  Another gunshot pierced the din, and this round passed close enough for Jack to hear its whine. It thudded into the trees ahead of him. This one, he knew, had come from the pirates, not the old man. Apparently they’d been able to keep at least one gun from getting too wet to function.

  Speed was difficult to attain in a flight suit still dripping with seawater, but Jack reached inside himself and found the strength to pour it on. He reached the cover of the trees and zigzagged between them, underbrush clutching at his legs and low branches grabbing for him. Deep within the stand, the trees grew thick enough to slow his progress, but he passed through as fast as he could, ignoring the scrapes and cuts they inflicted. If they slowed him, they’d do the same to the pirates. And, he hoped, they’d be more accustomed to the sea than he, and they’d need some time to acquire their land legs.

  More shots rang out, barely audible over the storm’s din. They were firing blindly, Jack knew, aiming into the trees and hoping for the best. One of the shots grazed his upper right arm, tearing the fabric and just scraping the skin. He’d suffered worse damages from low branches.

  Behind him, he heard the pirates crashing through the trees.

  He thought he was putting some distance between them, though. Solo, he’d been able to weave through the trees faster than they could. They were no doubt whipping one another with branches as they tried to bull through, maybe entangling one another. One going down near the front could cause a chain reaction all the way back.

  The end of the thicket was just ahead. He could see sky now, through the treetops. Open country ahead would allow him to really gain some ground. He might be out of sight before the pirates even cleared the trees.