Baltic Gambit: A Novel of the Vampire Earth (17 page)

Duvalier had come up on deck. She needed air before dealing with the bodies of the Kurian boarding party. One of the crew suggested putting them on fish-ice for now, so they could at least be buried on land.

They had company. The crab boat that had come out of the harbor with them had turned their way and put on speed, digging its weighed-down nose into the Atlantic rollers, dumping the water that came on board in streams of spittle running from each side of the grinlike rail. It had obviously seen the explosion and moved to render assistance. A searchlight above her control room turned on.

From the opposite direction, another low gray shape powered toward the direction of the explosion, heeling as it made a swift turn. It had a swept-back superstructure that was similar to that of the burning patrol boat, but details were indistinct in the morning fog. Its color was that of a wet greyhound.

It made sense that the Kurians would want to cover several
points of the compass out of sight of Halifax. One boat couldn’t do the job.

“This may be bad,” Ableyard said, unlocking a wooden case near the wheel. He extracted a pair of large naval binoculars and gently rocked his hips as he examined the new mystery boat.

Bet those are worth a bit,
Duvalier thought. When she was operating in the KZ, she took every opportunity she could to steal binoculars or telescopes.

Ableyard’s big binoculars were so battered and worn that the black coating that had once covered the metal had all but rubbed off of the casing, leaving stainless steel shiny with the oil from various pairs of hands.

“Do you have another pair?” asked Valentine.

“Optics are family heirlooms in these parts,” Ableyard said. “I’ve a telescope; it’s a relic, not much better than a kid’s toy. It’s just above the chart table behind you.”

With that he fell silent, observing the boat running toward them. It would beat the crab boat, easily. “No,” Ableyard said, putting the silver binoculars to his face. “
No!
It’s definitely a patrol boat. New England Fleet. They’re burning a blue flare. That means we’re to slow the engine to just enough to hold a course, and assemble on deck, hands above heads.”

“We won’t be able to try the same trick twice,” Valentine said.

“If they even bother boarding us before sinking this pig,” Ableyard said. “That turret is manned. It’s aimed right at us. They’re probably just waiting for an order to fire.” His cheek twitched nervously.

“They might not know for sure what happened,” Ahn-Kha said. “The boat behind is now nearer the debris.”

“They must have our description,” Ableyard said. “A big crab boat, mistaken for us? Not likely.”

“Should we abandon ship?” Valentine asked.

Ableyard shook his head. “No point. We’re in range. We’ll be blown away before we can get the raft manned. I’d rather let the shells get me than freeze in that water.”

“We can take some solace in the thought that the crabs that eat up the bits will be pulled up by your fellow fishermen,” Ahn-Kha said.

“Hell of a thing to be thinking about, old horse,” Valentine said.

“Our friend behind comes up fast,” Ahn-Kha said. “The crab boat. I wonder why.”

The crab boat showed a surprising turn of speed, but it wasn’t making an escape; it was overtaking them, setting an intercept course between them and the other patrol boat.

“Damn if I know the name of that crabber,” Ableyard said. “The captain must be insane. What does he think he’s doing?”

As if in response, the blue trap-marker barrels fell away, revealing two crewed cannons hidden behind the false wall of plastic. Duvalier wasn’t anything like an expert on naval weapons, but one looked like it might be a 30 mm. The barrels dropped quickly as the gunners aimed using foot pedals, and loaders stood at the ready with shells in racks like magazines.

“It’s a Q-ship!” Ableyard exclaimed. “Damn if the Halifax Coast Guard wasn’t shadowing us!”

“I’m glad the good guys found out about us, too,” Duvalier said.

“I might have mentioned it unofficially to a couple of friends serving in the Coasties,” Ableyard said. “They took the hint. We’re going to have a no-shit naval engagement in about five seconds.”

Duvalier found the spyglass in its bracket above the chart table and undid the little hook holding it to the wall. She left the control room to get a better view.

The patrol boat’s gun shifted from their own boat to the converted crab boat. It fired. A yellow tongue of flame flashed briefly from the cannon muzzle and a second later Duvalier heard the report.

The shell splashed close behind the crab boat.

She felt a presence, and glanced down to see Valentine watching the action from the deck next to the control room, too.

Her seasickness forgotten in the excitement, Duvalier jumped up onto an emergency raft box bolted to the side of the control room and hung on with the aid of the overhang that shielded the front and side windows. Using the spyglass, she could now see both participants in the battle.

Naval cannon fire cracked across the distance between the two ships. The crabber, which she could now see was named the
Skylark
according to the white letters on her bow, returned the fire. Stabbing tongues of flame spat out of the cannon mouths each time one of the quick-firing guns sent a shell toward the Quisling patrol boat. The smaller of the two cannons turned out to be the deadlier, firing with a distinct sound, half spitting and half buzzing, peppering the water all around the patrol craft with splashes and sending torn pieces of hull and superstructure flying in all directions. Two secondary explosions ripped through the Kurian patrol boat, and the sleek little boat was transformed into a burning wreck in an instant.

The dead boat still came on for another thirty or forty yards thanks to momentum, before rolling on its side like a dying whale.

“Poor bastards,” Valentine said.

Duvalier had learned her first lesson about naval actions: once the shells started flying, matters were decided very quickly. She and Valentine returned to the warmth of the control cabin. Ableyard was putting on speed to leave the area of the fight in case another boat—or worse, a plane—showed up.

“That’ll teach the damn pirates to board in these waters,” Ableyard said.

The crab boat dropped an inflatable with a power motor and a cowling to keep out the spray. It shot toward the sinking wreck, bouncing across the waves.

“Men won’t last long in these waters. Let’s hope a few made it off,” Ableyard said.

“A moment ago you were damning them,” Ahn-Kha said. His powerful breaths were fogging up on the front windshield of the control cabin.

Ableyard’s fingers tightened on the wheel. His eyes didn’t leave the little boat zipping to the wreck. “They’re enemies right up until they drop into the sea. Then they’re fellow sailors in distress. Heck, if they pull anyone out, they’ll probably want to settle down in free land.”

“If they pick up any officers, would there be a chance to question them?” Valentine asked.

“They’ll be in the hands of the Coast Guard. They won’t turn them over to anyone, except provincial authorities.”

“Of course,” Valentine said. “They probably wouldn’t know anything after all.”

Ableyard shrugged off the supposition that the Kurians had been
informed of the name of his boat and its secret purpose. “I still don’t understand it. There has to be twenty or thirty guys who think like I do for every one that wants to keep the Kurian regime propped up. Yet they still manage to find men to go do their fighting for them. At sea, yet. All they’d have to do is sail into Halifax and jump ship.”

Valentine borrowed the binoculars and watched the
Skylark
’s rescue efforts. “Typically they have hostages left behind. They’re comfortable, but they’re hostages nonetheless.” He handed the binoculars back to the captain.

Valentine looked over at Duvalier, and they shared a smile and a memory. For a moment, she felt a ghostly presence on her ring finger that had once held a fake wedding ring for almost a year.

The fishing ship followed a chain of islands leading northeast, navigating by getting radio bearings on stations that transmitted canned music or a tone. According to Ableyard, there were some unenviable Coast Guard duty stations on some of the little islands that were the first land ships crossing the North Atlantic hit in the northern latitudes.

Valentine, Duvalier, and Ahn-Kha offered to clean up the blood spilled on the deck. They talked as they worked.

“What’s interesting is the failure point in the chain. Southern Command was responsible for the travel arrangements to Halifax. From there, it’s the Refugee Network. Makes sense—they’re used to moving people in secret, know how to do it better than anyone across the Atlantic and Northern Europe. So either the Kurians know a lot about their doings, which seems unlikely because they’re otherwise
successful, or someone from Southern Command tipped them, giving the day and endpoint of our journey that they knew about.”

“You’re being paranoid, Valentine,” Duvalier said. “Things were sloppy in Halifax. I shouldn’t have wandered around town with Stamp. We should have stayed in tight.”

By the second night out, Ableyard judged them safe from the Kurian net. They were in the wide-open Atlantic and rolling in the waves, though the weather had turned a little warmer. Sun and warm air from the south brightened everyone’s spirits. He, his old and weather-beaten boat chief, O’Neill, Valentine, and Sime chatted over beers in the crew galley.

Duvalier sort of joined in, half listening and wishing for oblivion. O’Neill said that she’d get her sea legs soon; he’d seen plenty go to sea and get sick. Since she’d kept her preboarding breakfast down, he predicted that by the end of day two of the trip she’d be able to eat a little soup, and by day three the symptoms would be gone.

“There have been three Battles of Halifax. I guess four now, if this little encounter counts,” O’Neill said. As there was plenty of time for stories, he relayed the history of the Kurian gambits against Halifax.

A Kurian and his Reapers arrived at the town to help “organize” in the wake of the 2022 ravies plague and other disasters. Nova Scotia hadn’t suffered greatly from ravies. The population was just too spread out and with too few roads, letting the locals set up checkpoints and choke points where a few military weapons and some tough volunteers made all the difference. “They had to be…
ruthless,” O’Neill said, summing up worlds of agony in one little word. Duvalier understood it to mean that they shot down anyone with the slightest sign of the plague like mad dogs.

The Kurian was evicted as soon as he started demanding that a new list of offenses should be enforced and criminals moved out to a special compound on the other side of the island from Halifax.

The locals, while suffering from some shortages, didn’t much care for his ideas about how to organize themselves, and he lacked the muscle to ram his demands down their throats. They turned against the Kurian and sent him on a lobster boat back to Maine.

A few months later, pieces of the U.S. Navy led by a frigate now in Kurian control powered up into the harbor and shelled the town. The frigate’s helicopter dropped flyers over the town, assuring the people that whatever idiotic rumors they might have heard, the Kurians were here to help, not harm.

The Canadians replied that they had some privation, but were making do. If anyone wanted to press the matter further, they could take it up with the government. In Quebec City.

The second time, in 2024, they tried to take Nova Scotia. A combination of human “militia” and Grogs landed under the guns of four destroyers and a rocket-battery support ship in order to “suppress the flow of weapons” moving south. The people of Halifax and the smaller towns knew that next to nothing was flowing south, except a few boats shuffling refugees.

While there wasn’t much they could do about the guns of the ships in the harbor, at least initially, they did make life difficult for the occupying troops. Their equipment was sabotaged, and when that led to a few hangings, men and Grogs started finding
themselves the target of everything from snipers to hidden bear traps. A preserved Grog-leg and the trap that crushed it (severing a vital artery) sits in the Resistance Museum in Halifax to this day.